


we'll stitch ourselves back together but the scars won't fade

by tomorrowisforeverallours



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Concentration Camps, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Period-Typical Homophobia, in bastogne!webster, medic!webster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-07-19 23:57:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowisforeverallours/pseuds/tomorrowisforeverallours
Summary: Being a medic, Webster had thought, was one of the best ways to experience the war. All of the action and less of the danger - the Geneva Conventions guaranteed medical neutrality, at least if the Germans were a shred of the respectable people he'd once thought them. He hadn't volunteered for it, but when they'd taken his M-1 and replaced it with a satchel of bandages and morphine, he was more or less relieved.





	1. Crossroads-Bastogne

**Author's Note:**

> nobody asked for this but i wanted to write it lol.  
> will go from crossroads through the end of the series!

Being a medic, Webster had thought, was one of the best ways to experience the war. All of the action and less of the danger - the Geneva Conventions guaranteed medical neutrality, at least if the Germans were a shred of the respectable people he'd once thought them. He hadn't volunteered for it, but when they'd taken his M-1 and replaced it with a satchel of bandages and morphine, he was more or less relieved. 

He'd thought that to save lives instead of taking them was a more noble cause. 

He soon realizes that there is no nobility in war. There is only life and death and the lonely road he walks between them. 

* * *

He first meets Joe Liebgott after the crossroads battle at Schoonderlogt. 

He’s seen the Corporal within Easy Company before, heard banter about “The Barber” and his sharp tongue, sharper bayonet. But somehow Webster hasn’t much interacted with the man before. 

Perhaps it has something to do with how the cut of his jaw makes Webster want to reach out and glide his fingers across it. Or how his dark curls remind Webster of the chocolate he’d given that little boy outside of Nuenen, rich and precious and oh-so-tempting.

If there is a reason as to why Webster has not much spoken to Joe Liebgott before, he refuses to put it into words. 

The weather on October 5th, 1944 is much too lovely for the combat they’ve just gone through. Faint puffs of red smoke still emanate from the grenades they’d thrown, dissipating in the clear Holland air as a breeze sweeps across the field. Paratroopers are scattered in the vicinity, unwinding and licking their wounds after the battle. 

(Dukeman was gone before anyone could reach him.)

“‘Ere ya go,” says Eugene Roe with a short exhale, wrapping the tail end of a bandage around Webster’s leg. “You ain’t gon’ get hit again, are you, David?”

“It’s not as though I did it on purpose,” Webster grumbles, both irritated and in pain. At some point he’d been shot, though it was just a graze; as indignant as he is about being injured, it is unlikely that he was targeted on purpose. And even if he were, who would he complain to? The Germans? 

He winces as Roe pulls the bandage a bit more snug. He could patch himself up, but he doesn’t mind letting Roe do it for him, not after identifying the worry in those dark eyes. Medics have to stick together, after all. 

“But no, I’ll try not to get hit again,” Webster continues, rolling his eyes. “Same to you. You’re the one that landed on a barbed-wire fence. Do we match now?”

“Naw, mine’s on the other leg.” Roe shoots him a hint of a smile. Webster laughs. 

Their muted conversation is disrupted by cheers; it seems Dominguez has finally begun to dole out coffee and rations. Roe stands and walks away, murmuring something about taking some to Captain Winters.

Webster struggles to his feet as well. His well-trained eyes scan the men, a now familiar and endless process of searching for pained expressions or undisguised blood.

He finds both on Joe Liebgott. 

“Corporal!” 

The man turns as Webster approaches, enough for him to see that the bandage around his neck is soaked through with blood, and crimson has spread from the bottom of his ear to the collar of his ODs. The scowl he wears is evocative of exactly how Webster feels at the moment. When he speaks, his accent is harsh and nasal. “The fuck you want, Private?” 

“Sit down and let me look at that. Why haven’t you gotten checked out yet?” he demands. 

Liebgott’s expression only grows darker, if that is possible. "'Cause I was taking the fuckin' prisoners back to Battalion HQ, dumbass," he sneers, amber eyes glaring bayonets at him. “I’m fine. Don’t need no stinkin' medic.”

It isn’t uncommon to have a soldier rebuff his attentions, but it is rare that they do so with such a temper. Webster isn’t about to put up with it. He reaches out and Liebgott smacks his hand away like an unwanted ex-lover’s touch. “Get away from me, Webster.” 

“With all due respect, Corporal Liebgott, if you’re injured, you don’t get to fucking tell me what to do,” Webster responds in due kind, matching his glare with one of his own. “Your wound opened up again, didn’t it?” No response; Webster seizes hold of the man’s uniform and bodily pushes him down to the ground, daring him to fight back. Liebgott stares up at him, eyes wide. “A bit of free advice: listen to your medics or next time you get hit, you’ll be yelling for a while, _sir_.” 

“You wouldn’t fucking dare ignore somebody callin’ for you,” says Liebgott. 

He’s right. “Try me,” Webster says anyway, half-falling to the ground when his injured leg buckles as he bends. He catches himself, pebbles digging into his palms, and rights himself to find Liebgott staring with an unreadable expression. “What?”

The man scoffs and looks away petulantly. “Nothin’. Just get on with it.” 

“Fine.” Contrary to his exasperated tone, Webster makes sure his movements are careful and measured as he slowly unwraps the bandage around Liebgott’s neck. His knuckles brush the underside of the man’s chin and he can feel his Adam’s apple bob. 

The wound looks worse than it really is - it’s barely more than a graze, the heavy blood flow a result of its location and the muscle’s continued usage. Webster cleans the area as well as he can with the soiled cloth and a bit of water from his canteen. Then he fishes out a half-used sulfa packet and begins to sprinkle it into the wound. 

Liebgott hisses and flinches away, stilled only by Webster’s hand on his neck. He lets out a string of curses in German, to Webster’s surprise. 

_“Shit- fucking- pretty boy medic needs to watch where his fucking hands go, ‘s gonna stab me with a fingernail,”_ the man gripes, glancing about anxiously, though he shows no sign of worrying that he will be understood. _“Ow. Shit. Needs to shut his mouth, too, or I’m gonna do something fucking stupid.”_

Webster blinks. He hadn’t realized that his mouth was open, but he closes it now. 

_“Thank fuck,”_ Liebgott sighs, rolling his eyes. _“Kid’s got a real pretty face ‘til he opens his mouth.”_

Webster’s heart skips oddly in his chest, though he keeps his eyes and hands focused solely on their work. What could Liebgott mean by that? Is it possible he… 

No. There is no point in conjecture, especially not of this sort. It will only garner him pain. 

He shakes the thoughts out of his head, wrapping a fresh bandage around Liebgott’s neck and smoothing it with steady hands. “There. Don’t fucking agitate it,” he says, using Liebgott’s shoulder as a crutch to stand. “Find me if it bleeds through again.” 

“Sure, whatever.” 

Piqued by the man’s dismissal, Webster turns to look over his shoulder. _“Don’t forget what I said, sir,”_ he says in German, childishly relishing the way Liebgott’s mouth falls open in shock. 

There’s a speck of fear in his eyes and Webster turns his lips up in a reassuring smile. _“You’ll be fine,”_ he adds. _“What is spoken in German stays in German.”_

He walks away, heartbeat pulsing in his ears and his wounded leg, wondering if there is more to Joe Liebgott than he’d thought. 

“Uh… the fuck?” 

* * *

They’re heading into the Ardennes, to hold the line around a town called Bastogne. A gentle snowfall has begun to obscure the landscape, reminding Webster of lazy nights spent staring out his dorm window as he failed to focus on his studies. 

But the Private Webster of Belgium and the David Kenyon of Harvard could not feel further apart.

The men shuffling past them are little more than ghosts in uniforms, empty-eyed and dull-hearted. Webster gapes as he sees unbandaged wounds, olive fabric dark and stiff with blood, on what seems like every one of the men. Just what sort of a hell are they walking into?

Across the sluggish parade of soldiers, he sees Heffron and Guarnere begin to pester every retreating man they can for whatever they can scrounge: ammo, grenades, winter gear. Webster’s eyes meet Roe’s and they both spring into action. 

“Morphine! You got morphine? Scissuhs?” 

“Hey, give me your aid kit,” says Webster to the first man he sees. 

He frowns, spits a mouthful of dark _something_ to the side, and says, “Ah, ye don’t fuckin’ need it. All gonna die out there anyway.” 

Something foreboding curls at the bottom of Webster’s gut, hot and heavy like a dragon making its den. He growls and responds perhaps too callously, “Hey, your buddies are already dead. Give me your aid kit and maybe I can save some of mine.” 

The soldier glares at him, but there is little more than an aching sadness behind his eyes as he hands over the aid kit. 

Webster takes it. He pats the man’s shoulder and moves on, always forward, plying whatever meager supplies he can out of the retreating company, from bandages to drugs to even a carton of smokes when he can. The private who hands it over has only death in his eyes. 

Webster looks around at Easy Company, catches Liebgott’s gaze as he wrenches someone’s ammo bag from them. The Corporal’s eyes are a void flecked with orange firelight, and a single moment of troubled understanding wavers in the air between them, as invisible and yet unstoppable as radio waves. 

The days ahead of them are going to be long and cold and hard. Reflected in Liebgott’s eyes, Webster sees his own resolve harden.

They’re going to do what they must to survive. There is no other option. 

He can only hope it is enough. 

* * *

Once, when Webster was a child, he’d snuck out of the house during his scheduled Latin lesson to play in the heaviest snow of the year. While his governess searched the library high and low for him, David frolicked in the white blanket smothering the gardens, imagining himself in a fantasy world where letters and Latin were left behind. 

When he’d finally gone inside, it was only because his woolen coat was soaked through and he couldn’t feel much of anything. He was bedridden for two days to recover from hypothermia. 

But here, in the freezing wasteland of the Ardennes, he cherishes those memories of silent, soft isolation more than anything. 

_"Medic!"_

"What the hell are you doing without your boots on, Corporal?" demands Webster as he skids towards the foxhole, mud and snow scraping up his already-grimy ODs as he slides inside. "Gordy" Carson is shaking so badly he can barely hold up his wounded leg, so Garcia props it up on his own knee. 

"I was massaging my feet! Like you told us to!" 

"Oh, Jesus Christ." 

Trees and shells explode around them in a deafening cacophony of artillery, so loud that Webster can barely hear himself think. One shell had struck the tree above their foxhole, sending wooden shrapnel down to pepper the man's leg like skewered meat. Webster takes stock of the wounds for a mere second before moving into action. 

"Okay, Carson, hold steady," he says. Then he starts to pluck out the largest splinters, ignoring the fresh blood that oozes over his hands and into his cuticles, ignoring the man's pained howls, ignoring the muffled shouts for a medic across the line. Roe or Spina will get to them. 

He gets the biggest pieces out, but his tweezers were lost in Holland and the risk of infection is too great if he bandages Carson up as is. "It's not too bad, but I'm sending you back to Bastogne," says Webster, ripping open a sulfa packet with his teeth. 

"Off the line? Fuck, Web!"

"Hey, you can come back as soon as one of those pretty nurses pulls all the twigs out of you." 

"Aww, but no nurse'll have _your_ baby blues, Web," Carson jokes, strained as his voice is. 

Webster rolls his eyes. "Do you have any morphine, Corporal?"

"Uh, yeah, one syrette I think."

"Good, because I don't have any for you." 

It is a lie of omission; Webster has one syrette left, same as Roe and Spina. But as much as he likes Carson, something warns him to save the painkiller. There will be worse wounds than this. 

Carson fumbles for his own aid kit and then to his surprise, hands the morphine over. "I don't need it, Web. Maybe they'll give me somethin' in Bastogne." 

Webster doubts it, but he takes the syrette nonetheless. "Thanks, Gordy. You wanna help him back and find him a Jeep, Garcia?" 

The soft-spoken private agrees. The world has stopped shaking apart, calm beginning to reknit the fractures of their psyches as Easy takes stock of its condition in the wake of the shelling. Webster hears First Sergeant Lipton calling names in the distance. 

He makes sure Corporal Carson gets picked up and then goes to convene with his fellow medics. 

"Who got hit?" asks Spina, deepening the foxhole he shares with Roe. 

"Carson," Webster says, simultaneous with Roe's reply of "Penkala." 

"Shit, they ok?" 

They fill each other in, slumped together in the half-finished foxhole. Carson was worse off than Penkala, whose wounds are relatively minor, but each casualty is a drain on their already-scarce resources. 

"This is bullshit," Spina gripes. "No surgeon, no fuckin' aid station, no drops. How do they expect us to hold the line when we ain't got the shit to do it with?" 

"David," says Roe, "y' got any scissuhs?" 

"Uh, only my pair, sorry, Gene."

Roe curses under his breath, brow darkened with frustration. He's about to speak again when the voice of the company's nemesis snaps the silence.

"What's this? All three medics in one foxhole?" Lieutenant Dike's footsteps could probably be heard all the way to the German line; it seems the man doesn't quite get the point of treading lightly. Roe and Spina both avert their gaze, unwilling to talk back to their CO as the man chastises them. 

Webster barely resists an eye roll. "Sir, we're just discussing our supplies," he says, adopting the innocent expression that works on all commanding men as insecure as Dike. He'd perfected it at Harvard. "We won't be sharing this foxhole permanently." At least, not all three of them - Webster is bunking with Hoobler, but what the Lieutenant doesn't know won't hurt him. 

"W-well," Dike stammers, robbed of his momentum, "fine. Where's my foxhole?" 

Thankfully Lipton appears to lead him to it, disdain hidden by all but the slightest twitch of his mouth as they walk away. 

Webster sighs. Spina mutters some choice insults into his collar. Roe smiles, but it's wan and tired. 

"Somebody's gotta make a run over to Third Battalion and see what they can get," he says. "Beg if ya have to. You know what we need - plasma, morphine, bandages, some goddamn scissuhs if y'can get 'em." 

He and Spina meet eyes and the Philly man shrugs. "I don' mind going. I'll take Heffron with me, just in case shit goes south." 

"A'ight. Stay safe."

When the medic leaves, Webster turns to Roe. "Do you think he'll be able to get anything from them?" 

"Can only hope." 

And just like the rest of their resources, hope seems to be in increasingly short supply. Spina and Heffron return with a hilarious new inside joke featuring the lost Hinkle, but little to offer in the way of actual supplies. They share what they can before going their separate ways, each to make rounds through the men. 

Webster finds Hoobler in an enduring good mood, pulling fallen branches over to reinforce his foxhole cover. “Hiya, Web,” he grins. “How’s my favorite medic?”

“Would you like the United States Army approved answer, or the real one?” 

“Oh, I know what the Army’s tellin’ us. I was just hoping your Harvard imagination could come up with something better than that.” 

Webster rolls his eyes. “When we get out of here, I’ll write you a goddamn book, Hoobler. For now, I got three words for you: everything fucking sucks.” 

Hoobler cackles, his toothy grin coaxing a half-hearted smile out of Webster as well. If there is one thing he can count on in this frozen hell, it is that the men of Easy Company will cling to humor as a damn lifeline for their morale. 

Some men, of course, are livelier than others. A rasping cough from a figure in the distance seizes his attention; Webster pats his friend on the shoulder and goes to check on the soldier. 

He recognizes Liebgott by the slant of his thin shoulders, hunched over as he is. The man is digging his foxhole with a single-minded ferocity punctuated only by his occasional cough. 

“You alright, Liebgott?” Webster calls softly, announcing his presence so he doesn’t whip around and inadvertently shoot him. 

The man glances at him, scowl permanently etched into his features. “Ah, Christ,” he mutters, rolling his eyes skyward. “Whaddaya want, Webster?” 

“How long’ve you been coughing?”

“Fuck, I dunno. I’m fine.” He stabs his entrenching tool into the dirt, jolting when it hits a rock and bounces off. “Ain’t nothing you can do ‘bout it, anyway.” 

He’s got a point; Webster frowns, concern overlapped by his irritation. “Well, it doesn’t sound too bad. Find me if it gets worse, though.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Don’t give me that shit.” He hops into the shallow foxhole, forcing his way into Liebgott’s space. Their boots thump together as Webster stares the man down, absently struck by a thought - _white as snow, red as blood_ \- but determined to make Liebgott listen. “It gets worse, you come to me. Last thing we need is for you to get pneumonia out here. Okay?”

“Geez, fine,” says Liebgott. They meet eyes and something shifts, the deep lines of his scowl softening into an almost fond resignation. “I will, Web. You… you lemme know if you need anything, too, got it?” 

Webster blinks, taken aback. He needs a lot of things, none of which Liebgott can obtain for him. But it is the thought that counts here, and the flicker of warmth in his eyes is worth more than he can say; it sparks a slow, smoldering heat in the pit of his belly, a familiar pleasure that makes him flush and slip away. 

“Uh, right. I’ll do that,” he stammers. “I have to… go. People to check on, you know.”

He can feel Liebgott’s gaze on him as he flees. 

* * *

Days pass, each one marked by the same horrors: a cold so biting that extremities go white in minutes, long periods of peace interrupted by earth-shattering artillery fire, songs and screams blending together until Webster can barely tell the difference. 

That night, it snows twelve inches. He wakes up in the middle of the night when the world seems to drop ten degrees in temperature, and finds Hoobler shaking snow off of their shared blanket. 

Skinny Sisk gets hit. 

Then Lieutenant Peacock's disastrous patrol goes out, and they come back one man short and one man wounded.

Smokey Gordon is paralyzed from the neck down on Christmas Eve morning. 

Lieutenant Welsh's fire earns him a million-dollar wound.

The list of names grows longer in tandem with the lessening of their supplies and their morale. Webster does his best to keep his pessimism to himself, but the chances of any of them making it out unscathed seem to be shrinking exponentially. Colonel Sink's visit and message from General McAuliffe is a welcome message of resistance, but its effect wanes in the presence of a cold cup of white bean soup and lemonade snow for dessert. 

It is not the first time Webster has missed home, but it is the most poignant. He tries to imagine the scene - a three-course meal in their sparkling dining room, Christmas trees in every possible corner, a nightcap of the finest port and a four-poster bed - but it seems as far away as the Pacific and its sweltering holidays. The details escape his memory; would Mother wear red or green this year? Does his brother have leave to visit or is his CO as draconian as Sobel? 

"Hey, Web." Hoobler pulls him out of his thoughts, clicking their boots together. 

"Hmm? Oh, hey."

"Not to leave ya stranded or anything, but me 'n' Rader are gonna take the OP for tonight, give everyone a night off, yanno?" He pulls an apologetic expression. "Think you can find another foxhole buddy?"

Webster shrugs. "Sure, Hoob." He's not sure who he could bunk with - Roe had gone back to Bastogne with Harry Welsh, and who knows where Spina is. Probably with Heffron. But he'll figure something out.

Hoobler claps him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Web. Merry Christmas, yeah?" 

"Merry Christmas, Hoob." 

Shivering and lonely, Webster walks the line. He passes the mortar squad's foxhole, faint tendrils of smoke seeping from the corners of their tarp. Talbert is chuckling quietly as Shifty Powers recalls the entirety of "The Night of the Bayonet" from memory. Curled up in Sergeant Randleman's foxhole is he and Sergeant Martin, whose dark curls are barely visible above the blanket that covers them both. Webster meets Bull's eyes and returns his slow, careful nod of recognition; what happens in foxholes stays in foxholes, and he will be the last to judge if the feelings go beyond that. 

When he reaches Liebgott's foxhole he pauses. Something between the two of them has changed, ever since they'd arrived here in Bastogne. Where there once was animosity there is now a strange feeling of kinship, forged by the frozen hellscape they share. He finds himself gravitating to the man despite the dangerous feelings that arise whenever Liebgott smiles, because if either one of them could die any minute, who is he to deny himself that pleasure?

Sometimes Webster catches Liebgott staring out of the corner of his eye. He never says anything, but the one time he'd looked back Liebgott had seemed almost… embarrassed. 

He shakes the corner of the tarp and peeks in. Liebgott is alone. 

"Get in here, don't let out all the fuckin' warm air," the man gripes without looking. 

Webster needs no more encouragement. He slides beneath the tarp, cold snow seeping through the back of his jacket, and presses their shoulders together. "Hey."

Liebgott jolts, an involuntary noise of shock escaping him that makes Webster chuckle. "Sorry, were you expecting Marlene? I'm afraid her schedule is full."

He gets a wide-eyed stare in return. "Uh, Alley, actually."

"Oh. Well, I can go -"

"Nah, stay," says Liebgott, snagging his arm before he can move. "Alley can find another hole. He's good at that." 

Webster snickers, allowing himself to relax back against the dirt wall. Liebgott angles himself away, which gives him a lovely view of his too-sharp cheekbones but deprives him of their shared body heat.

'Merry Christmas' is on the tip of his tongue but he catches himself. Liebgott is Jewish. 

"Happy Hanukkah," he says. 

Liebgott blinks, and then he's laughing, perhaps too loud for their noise discipline, but there's a genuine delight in the sound that almost warms Webster. "Oh, man, Web. Thanks, but Hanukkah ended the day before we got to this shithole.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, fuck. You’re the only person that’s said that to me, ‘cept Captain Winters, and he’s a goddamn saint if I ever believed in one. You seen him doin’ his ‘French wash’ in the mornings?” 

Webster rolls his eyes. “I’ve told him multiple times that the importance of being clean does not outweigh the risk of hypothermia, but the only person he’ll listen to is Captain Nixon, and _he’s_ too busy running between regiment and battalion CP to stop him.” 

Speaking of hypothermia, he’s freezing, neither of them have blankets, and the point of sharing a foxhole is to share warmth as well as company. Webster scoots closer, reaching out to stop Liebgott when he flinches away. 

“Hey, stop it,” he complains. “It’s fucking cold.” 

This time Liebgott doesn’t shy away as Webster moves over, leaving them pressed shoulder-to-thigh, helmets clicking together. He does mumble under his breath, “Should’a figured you’re a cuddler, Web.” 

He snorts. “Your dates must be quite disappointed if this is what you consider cuddling, Lieb.” 

The nickname slips off his tongue casually, but they both pause. It is a common enough shortening of his name, but they both know what it means and Webster has always made a concerted effort not to use it. 

But what happens in foxholes stays in foxholes, and something in Liebgott's eyes sparkles. 

"Betcha I'm a better date than you are, college boy," he quips. "How many birds you slept with? Two?"

"That's a bit of a loaded question, isn't it?" asks Webster, one eyebrow quirked. 

Liebgott smirks and his stomach flip-flops. "Only if you're ashamed of the answer," he goads. 

Is he?

"Four," Webster admits. Liebgott's eyes widen, obviously not having expected an answer. "Four women. One in high school, two at Harvard." One in Georgia as he tried to convince himself he wasn't queer. It hadn't worked. "What about you?"

A beat of silence is followed by Liebgott's, "Seven," though he sounds less triumphant than would be expected. Another beat of silence, and then, in soft German: _"What about men?"_

Webster inhales sharply. “What?”

At first he panics. Has Liebgott figured him out? Sure, a lot of the men’s banter could be considered homoerotic, but Webster rarely partakes in the joking, too afraid that someone will see through him and realize where his heart lies. But there is a curious spark in Liebgott’s eyes, accompanied by a vulnerability rarely seen on the older man. 

He is not the only one taking a risk here. 

What happens in foxholes stays in foxholes, and what is said in German stays in German, but there is no denying the danger of a court-martial or firing squad should this conversation stray beyond their ears. 

Yet, Webster’s gaze traces the curve of Liebgott’s chapped lips, and he cannot resist.

 _“Just one,”_ he whispers. _“He was a senior at Harvard. I was a freshman."_

His eyes are nothing but black in the half-moon light. When the words come out, they are low and almost filthy. _“Did he fuck you good, Web?”_

Webster shivers regardless of the cold, memory flung back to a night on a squeaky bed, bruised hips and disappointing pillow talk. A half-amused smirk pulls at his lips. _“Not as good as it could’ve been.”_

_“Aww, how unfortunate, princess.”_

_“What about you?”_ he asks, determined to subvert the interrogation, confident now that they’ve cracked the ice. _“You ever have someone fuck the bastard out of you?”_

Liebgott laughs. _“Not possible. A couple guys tried, cooled off when they realized I don’t take kindly to being pushed around.”_

_“I’ll bet you scared them off.”_

_“Eh, not before we had a real good time,"_ leers Liebgott. His features are almost sharklike in the near-darkness - a flash of white teeth and dilated eyes. He reaches over to where Webster's bare hands are tucked between his legs for warmth (can't work with gloves) and takes one hand between his own, stroking it much too sensually for a foxhole setting. 

_"I could show you a good time, Web,"_ he whispers, voice pitched just this side of wicked, and Webster _wants._

He pictures what it'd be like to let Liebgott fuck him. He’s slight, but Webster’s seen him put men on their backs in hand-to-hand training, seen him absorb the recoil of a M-1 effortlessly; it would be a fight for dominance, if Webster wanted to fight. He imagines Liebgott pinning him down, whispering all the things he’d like to do to him with that silver tongue of his, and an artillery burst of lust flares up in him. 

_“You thinking about it? You want it?”_

_“Yeah,"_ Webster murmurs absently. Liebgott leans a bit too close and he jerks away, returning to his senses. _“Hey, not here!”_

_“What?”_

_“I’m not doing it in a foxhole, Lieb. What if we’re caught?”_ The risk is too high. 

_“What, you a screamer?”_ Liebgott teases. Webster rolls his eyes. 

_“You wish,”_ he retorts. _“I - seriously, hands to yourself.”_ He bats away Liebgott’s wandering hands and the man pouts, looking like a spurned teenage boy rather than the hardened soldier they are all pretending to be. 

_“You know, either one of us could die any day,”_ he says. _“Don’t you want your last memories of little ol’ Joey Liebgott to be good ones?”_

_“If you’re trying to spoil the mood, it’s working. Look, maybe when we get out of here. Gives us something to look forward to.”_

_“Sure, Web,”_ Liebgott mumbles, exhaustion showing now that his hope for sex has been crushed. His eyes slip shut, head tilting onto Webster’s shoulder; his warm breath fans across his jaw. _“We get outta Bastogne and I’ll fuck ya ‘til you can’t walk.”_

Webster sighs and closes his eyes. The feel of Liebgott pressed flush to him is as comforting as it is unfamiliar. _“I look forward to it, Lieb.”_

* * *

On the 26th, the Third Army breaks through the German lines to reach Bastogne. Their severely wounded are evacuated, and they are resupplied, but none of it is enough. 

Webster holds his tongue when his comrades gripe that they were not in need of rescue. He has the utmost faith in Easy Company, but to him it is clear that they could not hold out for much longer. The Battered Bastards of Bastogne are still alive and kicking, but at a cost. 

Everyone hopes to be pulled out to Mourmelon-le-Grand, but they hold the line. 

On New Year’s Eve, their mortar squad joins every gun in Bastogne in a holiday shelling of the Germans for everything they’ve got. Skip Muck hoots every time they set off a round. Sergeant Guarnere is leading a group in a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne,” which may perhaps be a competition as to who can sing the most off-key; if so, Joe Toye is undoubtedly winning. 

Webster watches the commotion from a ways off, smiling faintly. He wishes he could take out his journal and immortalize tonight in its pages, but his fingers are too frozen to be dextrous enough to hold a writing utensil. It is snowing, moreover, and his journal’s pages are wet and smeared enough. 

The crunch of a footstep alerts him to Liebgott’s presence; Webster glances up just in time to see the Corporal lean down and press their lips together in the slightest of kisses. 

He pulls away just as fast. Webster gapes. “What was that!?” He looks around semi-wildly, but no one pays any notice to them. 

Liebgott shrugs. “No dames around, figured you were the next best thing, college boy,” he bluffs, the self-satisfied look in his eyes belying his flippant tone. 

Webster rolls his eyes, heartbeat too fast, lips twitching into something that is decisively not a smile. “Thanks, Lieb. Happy New Year.” 

“Happy New Year, princess.”


	2. The Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for all of the canonical pain that comes with this episode. Cliche Webster wound is cliche.

His hope for the year of 1945 is that Easy Company will make it through the rest of this battle relatively unscathed.

Webster ought to have known that to hope such a thing is to jinx it. 

Their “thousand-yard attack” through the Bois Jacques is the most direct action the company has seen as a whole in Bastogne. Webster sticks to his platoon at the beginning, but when Captain Winters calls “Move out!” and the battalion begins to advance, he loses sight of most everyone in the winter haze.  Sporadic machine gun fire becomes the soundtrack to their march, along with the regular screams for a medic. Webster loses himself in the routine, grateful to find that most of their casualties are walking wounded. When they’ve driven the Germans back far enough to secure their new position, he checks in with Roe and Spina, does a round through the men, and then sets out to dig his foxhole with a single-mindedness driven solely by the cold. 

“Hey, Web! Check this out!” Hoobler calls his attention, frolicking through the seven inches of snow on the ground to meet him. He grins and pulls out a gun from his pocket. “Got me a real fuckin’ Luger! Shot a Kraut off a horse!” 

The pistol is black and sleek, like the sidearm piece Webster carries yet has never once fired. 

He smiles and claps Hoobler on the shoulder, careful to stay away from the gun. With paratroopers, there’s no telling if it’s loaded or not. “Hey, that’s great, Hoob. You’ve been wanting one for a while, right?”

“Only the whole fucking war!” 

Webster chuckles. “Well, I’m glad for you. Shoot some Germans with it, yeah?” 

“I sure will, Web!” Hoobler chirps and moves on, calling for Sergeants Randleman and Martin to check out his new souvenir. He’s alone for a while, scrounging for branches to reinforce his foxhole cover and listening to Skip Muck and Alex Penkala bicker over the best place to dig in. 

A gunshot rings in the distance. 

Webster freezes, crouching low as he tries to sort out where the noise had come from. Sniper? Misfire? 

_ “Medic!” _

He springs into action, shuffling low and quick towards the sound of the call, moving on instinct. George Luz gives him a reassuring nod as he passes, hands already working quick on his radio to report any German activity. 

“Medic!”

“Webster!”

They’re calling for him, specifically? Webster breaks into a run. It is rare that he feels any strong premonitions when someone calls for a medic, because it is so frequent, but there is a sickening ache in his chest that warns him something bad is to come. 

“Medic!” 

There is a commotion of men gathered, hands jerking about and voices raising higher and higher in panic; Webster pushes his way in, demanding space, demanding answers. His blood runs cold when he realizes the fallen soldier is Hoobler, expression twisted in agony as he clutches his bloody thigh.

“What the fuck happened?”

“His leg, Webster!” Lieutenant Compton snaps, and he jerks into action, scrambling for his scissors as the man explains. “Luger went off in his pocket.”

“It was loaded? Really, Don?”

“I’m sorry, Web!” 

“It’s okay, it’s - you’re gonna be alright, Hoob,” Webster says, voice trembling even as his hands work furiously to rip open a hole in his trousers. There’s so much  _ blood, _ warmth flowing freely across his fingers, and he can’t find the damn wound, can’t see anything. “You’re alright. Keep him warm, elevate his head-”

“The blanket, Perconte, put this across him -”

“Stay with us, Hoob, stay here!”

Everything is wet and crimson. Webster gets a tourniquet around his thigh but he can’t see the wound, can’t see what’s been hit, and Hoobler is spasming so much that it makes any aid difficult. “Don, hang on, it’s not that bad - you’re fine -” 

He won’t stop bleeding-

“You’re fine, okay, we’re gonna get you back to the aid station-”

It’s an artery, clamp the artery-

“Web.”

Sulfa, bandages, aid station. Sulfa, bandages-

“Webster!”

He jerks, momentarily stilled by Compton barking his name. Webster looks up at him in confusion, just in time to see Hoobler’s face go slack and his eyes dull as a last, rattling breath leaves his chest. 

“...no. No,” he whispers, clutching at Hoobler’s leg and shaking it as though it will rouse his friend. How many times had he woken Hoobler up in their foxhole? Just a brisk shake and he always wakes up. Wait, the artery. “I can’t  _ see _ anything, we need to get him to the aid station-”

“David,” murmurs Sergeant Lipton, “he’s gone.” 

And Webster falls back, falls into himself, unseeing eyes focused on his friend’s once lively features, because Toccoa to Belgium they'd survived, and Hoobler is gone? Because of the one thing that may have brought him joy? He distantly registers Perconte calling for a Jeep and Sergeant Lipton quietly speaking to Hashey, but nothing truly breaks through the haze until a soft voice mumbles, “Ah, fuck,” and an arm winds around his shoulders. 

“Come on, Web,” says Liebgott, attempting to pull him away. “Let’s go.”

“Hoob - I -”

“Shh, let’s go.” He resists until Liebgott says, “Ain’t nothin’ you can do for him now.”

Only when that begins to sink in does Webster let himself be pulled up and away from Hoobler. Hoobler’s corpse, now. They’ve lost him. 

His body feels cold and numb. Liebgott’s arm around his waist is the sole thing driving Webster to pick up his feet, and he lets himself be corralled down the line. 

“Where’s your foxhole, Web?” 

“Not done yet,” he mumbles, looking up. He spots Muck and Penkala’s worried faces and gestures vaguely to the area, but Liebgott urges him on. 

“It’s alright. Mine ain’t far. Hey, maybe you can help me out later. Make sure I don’t got trenchfoot.”

It’s obvious that he’s trying to pose a distraction, but Webster is uninterested in anything but his own thoughts. He is so goddamn tired of this war. Hoobler died the same way the German on horseback did - gasping in agony, thinking of home. Will any of them ever see it again?

Liebgott’s arm slips from his waist down to his hand, and he pulls Webster into a foxhole where he slumps to the ground. A moment later a blanket is draped and carefully tucked around him. 

Webster looks up, blinking to focus, and meets Liebgott’s eyes. Worry is at the forefront of his expression, worry and grief and yet a determination that he finds strength in. 

“I ain’t going anywhere,” says Liebgott, as if reading his mind. “Think if I let the Germans get me, you’d kill me yourself, wouldn’t you?” 

It coaxes an amused exhale out of him. “I would,” Webster agrees. 

“So don’t worry about me.” Liebgott flops down next to him, pressing them together shoulder-to-thigh just as they were on Christmas Eve, although now there is only comfort in the motion. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere either, Web.” 

“Right.” If only he could believe it. 

They stay like that for a while. Liebgott chatters about back home, about his job at the cab company and all the pretentious Stanford students he’s driven around (“Only difference between you and them, Web, is they’re all tan and crispy and you’ve got the skin of a newborn infant”) and the shenanigans his siblings are undoubtedly getting up to during the winter break (“Poor Ma’s gonna kill me for leavin’ her alone with them”). He has a nice voice, when he’s not yelling or complaining, and Webster allows himself this guilty respite. 

First Sergeant Lipton stops by to check on them, but they’re not disturbed otherwise until Lieutenant Dike comes around. “What’s this? Don’t you two have something you should be doing? Especially you, medic.”

Webster can feel Liebgott tense, about to say something he’ll likely regret, and elbows him gently. 

“Yes, sir, you’re right,” he says, ignoring Liebgott’s indignation. “I’m sorry. I’ll get to work, sir.” 

“Web-”

“Hmph. Good.” Dike stalks off, yawning, and Liebgott grabs his shoulder. 

“Fuck him, Web, you don’t gotta do nothin’,” he says fervently, but Webster shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, Lieb. I ought to finish my foxhole, and check in with the others,” he says. He doesn’t have time to lose himself in his grief, not when Easy Company still needs him. He stands and Liebgott rises with him, arm still caught in his grip, expression torn; Webster gives him a wan smile. “Thanks, though. I’ll see you later, okay?” 

“Y-yeah, sure, Web.” Liebgott lets him go and he walks away. 

Digging his foxhole is a welcome distraction from his own thoughts, as is dealing with the myriad of minor complaints he hears from the men. By the time he has the chance to think about Hoobler, night has fallen.

Webster looks at his shallow, empty foxhole, and sets off down the line. 

“You alright, boy?” calls First Sergeant Lipton; he nods to the man. 

“Hey, Web, wanna get in here?” asks Christenson as he passes; he smiles but shakes his head. 

“There you are,” says Liebgott when he drops into the trooper’s foxhole. He passes over the cigarette he’s smoking and Webster takes a grateful breath of the acrid smog. “Everybody okay?”

“As okay as we can be,” he responds. He presses close, stealing half of Liebgott’s blanket; the temperature that night is below freezing and only dropping. In exchange, Liebgott takes his cigarette back. 

“Are  _ you _ okay?” 

“No,” he admits, “but I’m as well as I can be.” 

If he closes his eyes, the vision of his friend’s death spasms comes back to haunt him, so Webster doesn’t close his eyes, but staring into the depths of the Bois Jacques is just as bad. He takes off his helmet, rests his head on Liebgott’s shoulder, and searches for a distraction. 

“Hey, Lieb.” 

"Eh?"

"Have you ever been to the ocean?"

Liebgott snorts, smoke curling from his mouth. "Web, I live in California. Course I've seen the ocean. We  _ all  _ saw the damn thing on the way over here."

"Have you ever seen a shark?"

"What?"

"A shark," Webster repeats. "I'd like to see one. They seem like very impressive creatures." 

He can feel Liebgott's disbelieving eyes on him, but the soldier merely shakes his head and pokes Webster in the mouth with the cigarette filter. "Shuddup and take this. Lemme tell you ‘bout our aquarium…" 

* * *

The next day, most of the company pulls back to their original foxholes, previously inhabited by 1st Battalion. Webster isn't much interested in revisiting the foxhole he'd shared with Hoobler, so he walks the line. 

"Someone's gonna fucking die!" snarls a familiar voice. "Guarno, look at this shit!"

Webster frowns, approaching the man from behind. "Sergeant Toye!" he calls. "Shouldn't you be back at the aid station?" He'd been dinged only the day before by shrapnel, and yet here he is, a guilty look in his soulful eyes. 

"Hi, Webster," he rasps. "Cap'n Winters said I was okay to come back to the line."

"Did the medics at the aid station agree?"

"What they don't know won't hurt 'em."

Webster rolls his eyes, already walking away. Too many men have gone AWOL to rejoin Easy for him to care anymore. "Stubborn bastards, all of you, tempting fate." 

"An' proud of it, Web!" cackles Sergeant Guarnere. 

Fate decides to put an end to their foolishness that day, in what is the most destructive artillery barrage they've faced yet. Webster doesn't hear about what happens to Toye and Guarnere until afterward, when he comes across the blood-soaked patch of snow where Luz sits vigil and Sergeant Lipton quietly fills him in. 

"Ah, Christ," he mumbles, nauseous at the thought of two of Easy Company's best men mangled by one bombing, never to be the same. "I told him he ought to be back at the aid station, and now what?" 

"Aw, even now he wouldn't'a listened to you, Web," Luz sighs, the shadows under his eyes only darkening in the fading sunlight.

He's right, but it doesn't make either of them feel any better. Webster sits down beside him and offers him a cigarette. 

"Thanks, Web." 

On the 9th, they lose Muck and Penkala. Webster stares into their foxhole and thinks of crawling through pig guts at Toccoa, memory triggered by the smell of blood and raw flesh as Sergeant Lipton reaches down and plucks Skip’s rosary from the ground. Back then, they’d thought Sobel had done it for shock value. When he was chosen to be a medic, he’d known he was going to see wounds and death. But this… absence of bodies unnerves him. 

They bury the two together. Webster offers Malarkey a cigarette. It feels like all he can do to heal the scars he cannot see. 

The night before Easy Company leads the assault on Foy, he leans his head on Roe's shoulder and murmurs for the first time, "I'm scared, Gene."

"What you scared about, David?"

Webster swallows. "Scared that this battle will be the one to break Easy Company. Or if not this one, then Noville, or whatever comes after that. We have replacements already breaking down. Our NCOs can't hold us together much longer, and our commanding officer is a pansy-ass West Pointer who couldn't figure out which end of an M-1 is which if Hitler himself was standing right in front of him," he spits. "There are only so many wounds we can heal, Gene. I'm afraid of the ones we can't."

Roe is silent for so long that Webster would fear he's fallen asleep, if he didn't know him so well. Eventually the other medic shifts and says in his measured way, "Ain't gon' argue all that, David. Hell, I'm scared too. But I don' think Easy is that close to fallin' apart. Still got Cap'n Winters lookin' out for us."

"But he can't do anything about Dike."

"What happens with Dike is up to God. We just gotta do our jobs, David, and trust that it'll shake out in our favor. Now hush up and get some sleep." 

Webster wishes he could share Roe's faith in a higher power, though he knows even that had been shaken in recent days. Still, his advice is always decent. 

It lets him fall into an uneasy sleep, waking only at a pair of soft voices beside him, one of which is Roe. The other he thinks is Bill Guarnere for a moment before he remembers that Guarnere is gone. Heffron, then. Webster keeps his eyes closed and breathing steady, listening to their conversation. 

"'Ey, Gene. I jus' wanted to say… well, if somethin' happens today-" 

"Ain't nothin' gon' happen to you, Heffron."

"You don't know that."

"I know it as sure as I know how t' do my job. Anything happens to you, I'll be there, Edward." 

Heffron lets out a frustrated laugh, or so it sounds to Webster. He is beginning to feel as though this is a conversation he ought not to eavesdrop upon, but there is no going back to sleep now. "Ya missin' the point, Gene, and you never let me finish, neither. God forbid somethin' does happen, I wanna say I did this."

There's an odd moment of silence, punctuated only by the breathing of three individuals. Webster keeps his face slack, but his curiosity gets the best of him and he opens his eyes a pinch - 

-to see Babe Heffron with his lips decisively pressed to Eugene Roe's in the morning's first light. 

It is nearly impossible to cover his shock and remain still, but Webster manages it. His thoughts race so quickly that he misses Roe's response, but there is no shout of horror or disgust, so if he doesn't like it, he's at least keeping quiet about it. A few minutes later his ears pick up on the slowly-fading crunch of snow beneath one's feet. 

A sigh. "Y' can open your eyes now, David," says Roe. 

He stiffens, panic lacing through him at being caught, and hesitantly opens his eyes. Roe is watching him with a patient, almost amused look, though the crease of his brow betrays his calm demeanor. 

"You ain't no good at playin' dead," he smirks. 

Webster chuckles awkwardly. "Well, I tried. Look, don't worry, Gene. Your secret's safe with me." 

"Oh, I know," says Roe. "Ah seen the way you look at Liebgott."

"W-what?" 

Were there enough warmth to coax blood to his face, Webster would be scarlet. Neither he nor Liebgott have spoken of the atmosphere between them, but to recognize that it exists is one step closer to all the dangers of its naming. As it is, he considers stammering all sorts of excuses, but Roe's soft dark eyes are all the reassurance he needs that the cover is unnecessary. 

"S'alright," he drawls, smiling. "Secret's safe with me, Web." 

Webster covers his face, but laughs for what will probably be the last time that day. He laughs until someone groans in the foxhole over and swears, “Shut the fuck up, Webster,” and then he buries his face in Gene’s freezing OD’s and giggles until the other medic finally joins him, their shuddering abating just a tinge of the cold. 

It is a moment of cheer that Webster desperately wishes to return to hours later, as the company besieges Foy. 

Dike’s breakdown halfway across the fields leaves Easy Company strung out behind the loosest of cover and taking casualties with every passing minute. Webster ducks behind a haystack with the rest of the officers, sharing a frantically exasperated look with Luz. He can’t claim to know his offensive strategies that well, but this is undoubtedly not one of them. His heart aches as he looks back to the woods and sees the scattered bodies of the wounded, but to venture out there is near-certain suicide. 

Everyone is screaming. Lieutenant Foley from 1st Platoon comes sprinting up and is told to flank the village, which sounds like a ridiculous idea to even Webster, and were the situation not so dire, he would be the first to tell Dike exactly how ridiculous it is. 

Nevertheless, Lieutenant Foley takes off again. Herron begins to follow and then -  _ gunshot, gunshot _ \- topples to the ground just outside of Webster’s reach. 

Medic instincts take over: he can’t abandon a man so close. Webster takes a moment to center himself and then dives from behind their cover, flinging his arms out to grab a hold of Herron's jacket and drag him behind the haystack. 

The man’s body is warm, but lifeless when Webster flips him over. 

He swears and turns away just in time to see a figure leap through the debris of a tank blast and come sprinting towards them like something out of an Errol Flynn film. Gaping, Webster recognizes Lieutenant Speirs from Dog Company just as he grabs Dike’s collar and announces, panting, “I’m taking over,” then asks Lipton for the company’s status. 

He and Luz meet eyes and the radioman wears a hopeful grin. It seems Captain Winters is looking out for them, after all. 

When Speirs orders for 2nd and 3rd platoons to follow him, Webster doesn’t hesitate. He is hot on Sergeant Lipton’s heels as they push farther into the village, driving the German infantry back despite their initial casualties, stopping wherever he can find cover to tend to the wounded. German artillery continues to batter them with earth-shattering fire targeting at will. 

Garrard takes a bullet to the leg; Neill, one straight to the head. Webster leaves the man behind and runs, his eyes fixed on a soldier in front of him. 

They'd always said if you can hear the explosion, you're okay. 

And Webster  _ hears _ it, a deafening noise that shatters his focus just before his world explodes with dirt and snow and shrapnel. 

He topples over and snow softly pillows his fall. For a second, there is only white and the ringing in his ears and Webster wonders if this lack of sensation means he's died painlessly. Then something grabs his leg and he sits up to see a wounded Private Sheeley screaming noiselessly for him and the world begins to spin the right way again, and he realizes just how insanely lucky he is that the Germans had targeted the one with the gun.

Still deaf, Webster grabs the man by the back of his shirt and bodily drags him behind a half-collapsed building for cover. 

Something stings his hand but it is the least of his worries, because Sheeley is all shrapnel wounds and thrashes in pain as Webster tries to get a gauge on them. 

"Keep still, you'll be okay," he snaps, the words faraway and distorted to his still-ringing ears. 

He'd taken most of it to his chest and stomach, and Webster rips open his uniform to assess and treat the wounds. The largest shard has gone neatly between two of his ribs and punctured his lung, if the wheezing is anything to go by, although Sheeley's hyperventilating is certainly not helping.

"Oh, fuck!  _ Fuck!  _ God, it hurts!"

"Stop moving, trooper," Webster urges as he begins to pull out the least-embedded of the shrapnel. The man's flailing makes it nearly impossible to treat him so Webster jabs him with a precious syrette and watches his eyes glaze over before he gets back to work. 

When he's done all he can, Webster summons the closest soldier to help him pull Sheeley off the line. His hand burns when he grabs a handful of the man's uniform but there's no time to discover why. He doesn't make time until Sheeley is safely off the battlefield and he is about to head back into the fray. 

"Hey, Webster," calls the less-injured Mauser, who is watching over Sheeley. "Is your hand okay?" 

"Hmm?" He blinks and looks; "Ah, fuck," he mutters. A piece of shrapnel has gone straight through his left palm, jagged metal sticking out on both sides. And now that his brain registers that he ought to be in pain, it fucking  _ hurts.  _

It is a relatively clean wound, and yet Webster's stomach rebels at the sight of his own flesh punctured like a filet mignon with a steak knife. He swallows the bile that rises, though, because he has a job to do and it will be hard to do it with one hand, so he braces himself and then jerks the shrapnel out cleanly. 

"Ow,  _ fuck."  _ Blood begins to flow and he fumbles for a bandage (should've gotten that out first), wrapping the bulky thing around his palm and allowing Mauser to tie it. "Thanks, Ed."

"No problem, doc," his fellow private grins. Webster makes a face - Roe is the only one for whom the nickname feels fitting - but nods nonetheless. 

"Watch him," he demands. 

"Yes, sir."

The firefight is mostly over by the time he heads back into the village. Still, there are prisoners to round up, wounded to attend to and KIAs to identify. None of them will be resting for quite a while. 

Webster hopes Liebgott is alright, then pushes the thought away. There is no time for that. 

He works until shots ring out and the men yell "Sniper!" Ducking against the nearest cover, Webster holds his breath and counts the seconds until someone shouts the all clear. Then it is straight back to work, but with only more casualties. He finds Roe bandaging Perconte's 'beautiful wound' and is glad to see the other medic alive and well. "Hey, Gene."

"'Ey, Webster," he echoes, wearing a relieved smile. Of course, the second thing he does is squint and grumble, "What'd ya do to ya hand?"

"Oh, it's just a…" not quite a scratch, "flesh wound. I'll be alright." He kneels down. "Perconte, how are you feeling?"

"Real special, Web," the Italian man grins from his prone position. "I get to join the esteemed ranks of Easy men with new assholes."

"And isn't that a treat," says Webster with a laugh. 

“Hey, you  _ wish  _ you’d been shot in the ass!” 

“I really don’t, Perconte.” 

* * *

When it is announced that they are not yet being taken off the line, but must travel with their casualties to take Noville and then Rachamps, no soldier is angrier than Captain Winters. He says nothing, of course, but every member of Easy can see the tension in his jaw and the way he almost snaps at Nixon when the captain approaches. 

No one is very surprised. Eisenhower needs men more than Easy needs rest. It is reassuring, though, to know that Captain Winters is indignant on their behalf, when Sobel would have told them they deserved it and Dike wouldn’t have said anything at all. 

“I can’t tell ya how fuckin’ glad I am to have him gone,” sighs Liebgott, his M-1 occasionally bumping Webster’s side as they trudge through the heavy snowfall. “Speirs might be a crazy sonuvabitch but at least he’ll  _ do  _ somethin.’” 

“Like you aren’t a little crazy, as well,” he says.

“Ah, but I ain’t got the authority to get away with the kinda shit he does.” 

Webster had been more than a little relieved when he’d encountered Liebgott after they’d taken Foy, wrangling prisoners up for the MPs. Liebgott had paused in his furious harassment of the men to grin and wave at him, and it'd felt like the greatest gift he'd ever received. 

And if that was quite the alarming realization, he doesn't let it show. 

There is no time for such foolishness, though, not when 2nd Battalion is marching towards Noville while the 1st is being absolutely obliterated on their left. David glances back and sees men flying through the air, and the wound on his hand throbs in sympathy. 

It is not Easy, though, and despite the guilt that floods him at the thought, he is relieved. 

They take Noville but it is not the last of Webster’s problems. He’d caught a slight cough in Foy, but after Noville it grows harsh and persistent, to the point where Liebgott tries to cover his mouth to get some sleep and nearly suffocates him. 

“That - that is really, not helping, Lieb,” he sputters between coughs, tempted to curse the man out. 

Webster can barely make out Liebgott’s silhouette in the dark of the night, but he can picture his expression by the irritation in his voice. “Well, what  _ would  _ help?” he demands. “You don’t got anything for that?”

“You know I don’t,” he says. “You could go sleep with someone else.” 

“An’ you know I ain’t gonna do that,” Liebgott retorts. Sure enough, every time they’ve bunked down he’s been at Webster’s side, although neither of them have voiced what ties them together. “I’m gonna go get Doc.”

“What? Oh, don’t do that, Lieb. I’ll talk to him in the morning, if you really want me to.” He has to grab Liebgott’s shirt and pull him back into the foxhole, where he falls down with a muffled grunt. His wounded hand itches and burns, and Webster absently tries to rub some of the feeling away. 

He can imagine Liebgott’s glare, but he just sighs and says, “Fine, Web. But if ya wake me up one more time I’m gonna kill ya.” 

“Right.”

In the morning, he finds Roe. The man takes one look at him and before Webster can get out any sort of greeting, he snaps, “Lemme see ya hand, David.”

“Huh?” A little dazed and sleep-weary, Webster fumbles for the bandages. Roe snatches up his hand halfway through and undoes it himself, brow furrowed in concern. 

The gaping hole in his hand has closed, for the most part, but the soft tissue is a painful, angry red, and Webster wrinkles his nose at the sight of a faintly green pus oozing from its center.  “Knew it,” Roe swears, followed by a swath of angry French words. “When’s the last time y’ changed this?”

“Yesterday!”

“Well, didn’t do no good.  _ Merde _ . It’s infected, Webster, and we ain’t got no penicillin to give ya. You’ll have to go back to the hospital when we evacuate Perconte an’ the others.” 

Webster bristles. “Off the line, Gene? And leave Easy with two medics? What will you do?”

“Ah’d rather that than have one of our three lose a goddamn hand!”

“Ey, who’s losin’ a hand?” questions Liebgott as he approaches, scowling. 

Webster rolls his eyes. Of course he would arrive just in time to hear the most alarming part of their conversation. “No one.” 

“Damn right, it’ll be no one, ‘s long as you get back to the hospital,” says Roe, poking him in the chest for emphasis. 

“Whoa, what? Who said anything about the hospital?” 

“Thanks, Gene,” Webster says dryly as Liebgott gapes. He goes to rewrap his hand and gets sharply slapped away by Roe. 

“Stop. ‘m gonna cover ya in sulfa first,” the medic says, fishing out a sulfa packet. 

He grabs Webster’s hand to hold it still and Liebgott leans over, making a face. “Geez, Web, gross,” he says. It is the lines around his mouth that betray his careless words; when they meet eyes, Liebgott looks almost worried, though for what reason Webster isn’t sure. 

“We’ve all seen worse,” he responds. “Ow,  _ fuck,  _ Gene! You don’t have to pack it in there!” 

“Sure as hell, I do. Liebgott, you’re on Webster duty. He gets feverish, headache, you come t’ me,” the medic instructs. “I’ll make sure Speirs and Lipton know what’s goin’ on.”

“Uh, all well an’ good, Doc, but I can’t watch him while we’re, yanno, storming Rachamps.”

“‘Sides then.” Roe rewraps his hand, clutching it almost tenderly between both of his own and looking up at him earnestly. “Jus’... trust me, Webster. I don’t want ya getting more hurt.” 

Damn him and his propensity for being earnest when all Webster wants to do is argue with him. “I always will, Gene,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s that bad.” 

* * *

He is willing to eat his words by the time night falls and the world has become shrouded in a thick layer of fever-fog, clouding his thoughts and senses. Thank God that Rachamps was an easy victory, because Webster is unsuited to take care of himself, much less any wounded. He barely makes it to the convent that Lieutenant Speirs has chosen as their CP before collapsing into a pew, aware only of the burning pain in his hand and the chill that consumes his body. It is the first night he’s been inside a building in a month, and he can’t even enjoy it. 

Someone settles in beside him, but Webster can’t tell who it is until Babe Heffron and his unique Philly drawl asks, “How’re ya holding up, Web?” 

He means to give a coherent answer, but a groan escapes him instead. 

“That bad, huh? Wan’ me to get Gene?” 

“No, don’t - don’t bother him,” he mutters, propping himself up with a great deal of help from Heffron’s shoulder. He squints around the room, taking in the company through the haze of candlelight, and just barely registers a group of young women filing into the front of the room. “Where’s Lieb?”

“Right here, college boy,” answers Liebgott, sliding into the pew on his other side. His presence is a comforting warmth and Webster immediately shifts to lean on him instead (no offense, Heffron). An arm comes up around his shoulders and he tucks his face into Liebgott’s neck, too disoriented to even mind the scent of dirt and sweat. 

He feels Liebgott chuckle more than hearing it, but there’s a tension in the sound. “You alright, Web?” 

“Been better,” he manages. “I think… I think Doc’s right.” 

“Gene’s always right!” 

“Shut up, Babe. I think he’s probably right too, Web,” says Liebgott softly. “I heard they’re evacuating folk tomorrow. Take you out to a hospital and get you all fixed up, then you can come back an’ tell us all about it.” 

The thought of leaving Easy Company is still a despised one, but Webster knows when he is beat, and this infection makes him of no use to the men. Better he leave and return healthy than remain stubborn and burn. 

A gentle melody permeates the air as the choir starts to sing, drowning out all signs of the war outside. Gradually, the peaceful atmosphere softens the edges of each one of the men, melting their frozen hearts until they can feel again - and with that, allowing them to fully comprehend the breadth of their victories, and their losses. 

Tomorrow, Webster will leave Easy for the hospital with Perconte and the other wounded men. Tomorrow, he will look into the face of Joe Liebgott and wonder if he will ever see him alive again. Tomorrow, he will contemplate telling Lieb exactly what he means to him. Tomorrow, he will hold his tongue. 

But tonight, there is nothing but the steady cadence of Liebgott’s breathing, the voices of innocent sopranos echoing off the convent walls, and the companionship of the best men he’s ever known. Tonight, he mumbles something like “Thank you” and receives a laughing, “Your beard is scratchy,” in return. 

Tonight, he knows peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt it appropriate to change canon here to have Web attend Hoobler, because emotional suffering and all. 
> 
> I was going to evacuate him after Foy, but in the series Perconte is still in the Rachamps convent scene, and since the show is (obviously) the canon this is based off of, I figured perhaps they couldn't evacuate their wounded until that area was taken. Not that it makes much sense. (Why was Perconte there???) 
> 
> anyway thank u for reading!!


	3. The Last Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No special warnings this time, save for the regular (mostly) canonical TLP happenings. Don't worry, they'll be in pain soon.

“Web, my fuckin’ ass hurts.” 

“For the last time, Perconte, there is nothing I can do about that.”

“I know, just wish I could fucking sit down right,” Perconte gripes, shifting on the bench of the truck they’ve hitched a ride on. He’d tried standing for some of the way and had nearly fallen off when they’d hit a pothole. 

Webster hides a smile and turns his attention to the landscape passing by. In the couple of weeks since they’d left Easy to be admitted at a military hospital, it has rained torrentially, and the once-pure white scenery has become a panorama of ugly grays and browns. Moisture seeps through their newly-laundered uniforms and a chill settles in his bones, but it is nothing compared to the shakes he’d had during his infection. 

He doesn’t like to dwell on it much, now that it’s over. All he remembers is being so hot that he would’ve gone back to Bastogne naked, dreams about home that were never quite right, and the constant prick of penicillin injections. 

In return, he’s spent two weeks off the line and his hand will never quite regain its prior dexterity. But he is alive, and that is more than he can say for many of the poor souls he’d seen pass through the hospital. 

And what’s more -- he’s going back to his friends. 

“Alright, boys.” The truck driver they’d caught a lift with rolls to a stop, poking his head out to look at them. “This is about as far as I can take you. This here’s Haguenau. What company d’you say you were with, again?”

“Easy, sir,” says Perconte, hopping down from the truck bed and swearing up a storm at the jolt to his wound. Webster grins and follows. 

“Ah. You’ll have to ask around and see where your CP is, I ain’t got a clue,” calls the driver. 

“Thanks for the ride, sir,” says Webster. 

“No problem. Stay safe, now!” he responds before shifting gears and driving away. Before them lies the bustling army outpost of Haguenau; many of its buildings are now rubble from the German artillery across the river, but there is still something rather homely about the small town. He and Perconte share a look before adjusting their packs and setting off through the crowds. 

They pass by a few men he recognizes from Dog and Fox Company, but most of the soldiers they encounter are unfamiliar. Webster is about to snag someone’s arm and ask for directions when they hear a sweet Southern voice chirp, “Is that you, Perconte? And Webster, too!”

“Hey, Shifty!” 

Perconte hustles and is met halfway in a tight hug by Shifty Powers, whom Webster has always appreciated for his soft-spoken nature and keen eye. He follows and is taken surprise by the hug he receives as well, Powers squeezing him before pulling back with a thousand-watt smile. 

"Everyone'll be right thrilled to have you back," he says. "All healed up an' everything?" 

"Ask Web, he's the one who insisted on playin' grab fanny the whole ride here."

Webster rolls his eyes. "You  _ asked  _ me to check your bandages."

"Yah, whatever, you still enjoyed it."

He stiffens at the implication, his good mood disapparating instantly. Perconte only means it as a jest, but it strikes too close too home, reminding him of all the ways he doesn't quite belong in Easy. (He thinks of Liebgott and his stomach twists in a nervous sort of exhilaration.)

"Where's the CP?" he asks abruptly. "We ought to check in with Lieutenant Speirs."

"Cap'n, now," Shifty corrects, pride in his tone that signals just what the men of Easy think of their new commander. "He's chosen a building thataways, by the river. Ah think Doc Roe and Spina are holed up somewhere near there, too. Wan’ me to show you?” 

“Yeah, Shift, that’d be great,” says Perconte before he has a chance to brush the paratrooper off. Webster bites his tongue and nods when Shifty politely glances to him for approval, and they set off with a destination in mind. 

The company’s command post is a commandeered residence just like the other buildings the U.S. army tends to take over - still littered with the belongings of its previous inhabitants, each item holding a memory from long before American hands touched their surfaces. Perconte goes straight up the stairs, tracking the sound of George Luz’s voice, while Webster follows Shifty into the living room. 

Captain Speirs is nowhere to be seen but First Sergeant Lipton is sprawled on a couch, looking incredibly worse for wear. Having seen more than a few men who were sick-as-a-dog in Bastogne, Webster identifies the fever sheen of sweat on his brow just before Shifty whispers to him, “Lip’s got pneumonia. Think we should let him sleep?”

“I ain’t sleepin’, Shift,” mumbles the officer, squinting bleary eyes open. “‘Sat... Webster with you?”

“Hello, Sergeant Lipton,” says Webster, going to check him over. Lipton is clearly on the edge of exhaustion, chest rattling with every breath, but he manages a half-hearted smile, just as he did when the rest of them were at their breaking point. “Unfortunate that you’ve taken ill just as we’ve come back healthy.” 

“It was a long time coming,” Lipton admits. “Are some of the other men with you?”

“Just Perconte.” Other casualties were either still making their way back to Easy or transferred to hospitals farther from the line. 

“Well, we’re glad to have you back.” As weak as he is, Lipton still manages his characteristic thump on the shoulder. 

Webster smiles more genuinely than he has in days. "Glad to be back, Lip. How's -"

"Who are you?" A harsh voice intervenes; Webster looks up to find Captain Speirs staring him down with a suspicious look, just before realization dawns on his face. "Ah. Private…"

"Webster," Lipton supplies with a cough. "Second Platoon's medic. Perconte is back too, sir."

"The noisy Italian one, right." Webster scrambles to his feet as the captain approaches, but Speirs ignores him. He walks straight over and shakes out a blanket he'd procured out of virtually thin air, draping it over the sergeant despite his protests. "If you're not going to go sleep, then you aren't allowed to get up from this couch."

"Sir-" 

"That's an order, First Sergeant," says Speirs in his not-to-be-argued-with tone. Feeling like a child awkwardly observing an argument between a friend's parents, Webster moves away, although not before he notices the newfound flush to Lipton's cheeks. "Webster."

"Yes, sir?"

"Second platoon. The other medics are stockpiling supplies in the building across the street. Check in with them. And tell Perconte to stay with First."

That said, Speirs turns away from him. Clearly dismissed and finding Shifty to have politely disappeared, he salutes and leaves the room.

His next task is to update Perconte. Webster means to go upstairs and speak to him, but someone else is taking the stairs down three-at-a-time and basically bowls him over in a full-on collision at the foot of the staircase. He yelps as he's slammed into the wall, wind knocked out of him too bad to properly chastise whatever ignorant replacement is running around so foolishly, but then he looks up and Liebgott is gaping at him, wide-eyed.

"...Web," he breathes, wonder etched into every line of his face. "You really are back."

Lieb is clean-shaven for the first time since Holland, bright-eyed and hopeful. There are an infinite number of possible responses running through Webster's mind, coupled with a wave of relief so overwhelming it would knock him off his feet if he weren't already halfway there - "I'm so glad you're okay," "I saw your face in every fever dream and I'm not sure what that means," "You look so beautiful when you look at me like that."

But his tongue refuses to form those words in this moment. Instead he pants, "Watch where you're going… fucker."

He expects Liebgott to scowl and perhaps curse him out, and is tentatively delighted when the man merely quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Says the one who once walked facefirst into a fuckin' tree in Bastogne," he smirks. 

Webster flushes. "One time! And at least I only hurt myself!" 

Embarrassment rises hot in his belly as Liebgott chuckles, but then the man is stepping forward and wrapping him in an abrupt embrace that ignites every nerve ending in his body. "I was running 'cause Perconte said you were back," he says into Webster's ear, breath fanning hot across his skin. "'M glad you're okay, Web."

"O-oh," Webster stammers. His gaze darts over Liebgott's shoulder, but the CP is calm, and no one would begrudge two war buddies a friendly embrace. Is friendship the proper term for this, though?

"That's all you got, Harvard? Lose that sophisticated vocabulary 'a yours in the hospital?" 

"I'm afraid there were no opportunities for conversation quite as scintillating as yours, Lieb," he responds with a matching smirk, anxiously thrilled by the way Liebgott's smile grows. 

"I'll have t' talk your ear off when we get the chance, then. You in Second Platoon still?"

"Yeah, Captain Speirs said to report to OP2."

"Cool, they transferred me there too, since they lost so many guys." Liebgott steps away from him, palms smoothing the fabric of his uniform as he fashions himself into a presentable state once again. Webster is tempted to do the same - as if their fraternizing could be evident in the wrinkle of a shirt - but forces his hands to lie still. "We can head over there after ya talk t' Roe. Got a new lieutenant, too. Johnson or Jones or somethin'."

"Or something?" Webster teases as he leans farther into the stairwell to shout, "Hey, 'Conte!"

"What?"

"First platoon!"

"Ah, Christ," responds the voice of Sergeant Martin. "You always the bearer of bad news, Webster?"

Webster laughs and bumps shoulders with Liebgott as they make their way out of the CP and across the street. A small building sits with its door propped open, lilting Cajun and grating Philly tones echoing from within, and he grins at the sound of an argument brewing. 

“Ya gotta take a break sometime, Gene!” 

“Ain’t gotta be on yo’ time, Heffron.” 

"Oh, throw the kid a bone, won't you, Gene?" Webster quips as he walks into the modest home they've borrowed from the French. The first thing he notices is the distance - or rather, lack of distance between Babe and Roe; their ankles brush as Heffron stretches his unnaturally long legs out, though he quickly retracts them so Doc Roe doesn't trip when he springs up.

"An' who let you outta the hospital, hmm?" the medic demands, an uncharacteristically bright smile on his face. He drags Webster into a hearty handshake, which coming from Doc is almost a hug in terms of affection.

"Betcha the nurses got tired of him tryin' to explain their jobs to 'em," says Liebgott, pressing into the room behind him, a little too close for polite company.

Webster rolls his eyes. "I didn't do that. Glad to be back, Gene. Heffron. And Spina, hi."

"'Bout fuckin' time you noticed me!” the man crows, getting up for a brief hug. “Our trio finally reunites. Now we can take anythin’ the Germans throw at us.” 

Liebgott’s aside is so soft he nearly misses it. “Fuckin’ hope so,” he murmurs. It is a comment Webster would brush off as his typical pessimism, were it not for the suddenly pained expression on Heffron’s face signaling to him that something is off.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“No, Lieb, what do you mean?”

Liebgott hesitates, another cue that there is trouble brewing. Finally, he says, “Sink wants a prisoner snatch. Patrol’s going across the river tonight. Oh-one-hundred hours.”

A bolt of terror lances through Webster; for a moment, he is back in Bastogne, numb and alone, watching as Death lingers over the road ahead. His expression must be a hilarious sight to see. “A patrol? Are they insane? What did Captain Winters have to say about that? Or Speirs?”

“No clue, but they ain’t got a choice,” says Heffron. Gene glares daggers at him and he wilts like a kicked puppy. “Yeah, I’m on it.” 

“And ya didn’t think that was  _ important _ enough to tell me, Edward?” 

“Ey, Joe’s on it, too!” Heffron protests. 

Webster looks to him sharply and finds Liebgott pouting. “Snitches get stitches, Babe,” he threatens without any ire, before finally meeting Webster’s eyes. “Don’t give me that look, Web. They need a translator.” 

“And it has to be you?”

“Well, yeah, dumbass. Know anybody else who speaks German?”

Webster scowls, his mind immediately drifting to the impossible. He wouldn’t even  _ want  _ to volunteer for the patrol, even if they would allow a medic on a combat mission, but the thought of Liebgott crossing the river is more upsetting than it ought to be. He’d been starting to believe they could make it through. They all had. And to throw their lives in jeopardy again feels foolish. But he is no officer, and ending the war must be their priority, so if Sink calls for this then it must be necessary. But he doesn’t have to like it. 

As if reading his thoughts, Liebgott says, “I think it’s dumb as shit, too, Web. Fuck. Too fuckin’ bad I ain’t an officer, huh? Guess Winters never really saw my true potential.” 

Webster frowns. He glances to Roe and Heffron, who are having a hushed and  _ intense _ argument, and Spina, who shrugs helplessly. “Who’s leading the patrol?” he asks.

Liebgott winces. “Malarkey.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” says Spina. “The guy goes through all that and they’re still gonna make him lead a patrol?” 

"Don't got much of a choice, do they?"

"Like hell they don't!" Webster exclaims. "What about Sergeant Talbert? Martin? Hell, throw the replacement lieutenant out there, let him try his West Point skills out for size," he rants. 

It's not that he's particularly attached to Malarkey; he values him just as much as any other Toccoa man. But he meets Gene's eyes and their conversation before Foy echoes through his mind.

Some wounds, only time and peace can heal. 

"I don't fuckin' know what they're thinkin', but that's how it is." A set of fingers cinches on his arm. “C’mon back to the OP with me, Web,” Liebgott plies. “The guys’ll be happy to see ya.” 

"Yeah, I'll come with you, Lieb," says Webster, the bare bones of a plan forming in his mind. "I ought to meet this new Lieutenant, anyways." 

* * *

Henry Jones is a baby-faced West Point graduate with too much to prove and little time to prove it. 

It gives Webster a strange sense of deja vu to look at him, knowing that he could have been Jones had he sought an officer position like his parents urged him to, rather than abandoning Harvard to sign up for the paratroopers in a fit of irrationality. He could be the one awkwardly standing in the corner as the men of Easy welcome their comrade back. He is clearly discomfited by their camaraderie, especially when Malarkey doesn't bother to properly introduce him. 

Webster watches him carefully, and feels Liebgott's eyes on him in turn. 

When it is Second Platoon's chance to shower, filling down the street to the makeshift tent they've set up, Webster lingers at the back of the group, near the lieutenant. Liebgott swaggers up to him with a grin. "C'mon, Web, warm water!" 

The thought of even a lukewarm wash is oh-so tempting, and getting to see Liebgott bare and vulnerable is almost irresistible. But he shakes his head. "Go ahead, Lieb." 

"You serious?"

"I don't really need a shower," he says honestly. He ignores the disbelieving look in his eyes, the silent accusation of preferring a replacement's company to the chance to be in the near vicinity of a naked Liebgott. He can think whatever he likes -- they'll sort it out later. "So yeah, I'm serious."

"Tch, fine." Liebgott storms away to sulk beside Sergeant Grant, stripping with an almost fierce swiftness. He abandons his clothes and Webster has to look away before his gaze can drift lower than the razor blades of his shoulders. 

Jones is watching them with a curiosity that remains in his eyes even when he schools his expression into a neutral mask rivalling Webster's own. 

"Friend of yours?" he asks. 

That coaxes a half-genuine laugh out of him. "Something like that," says Webster, thinking of the cold press of lips to his in the midnight darkness. "Lieb's a prickly bastard, but he's got a heart. Most of these ruffians grow on you."

"Ah, shut your goddamn mouth, professor," growls Roy Cobb as he stalks past, surly as always.

Webster rolls his eyes. "Except Cobb," he mumbles. "Only thing that grows on him is mold." 

The twitch of his lips is the only response he gets out of Jones, but it bolsters his confidence nevertheless. "Will you be leading the patrol tonight, sir?" he asks innocently.

Jones' expression sours. "No, I won't be on the patrol. Captain Speirs said I needed experience."

"Ah. How do you gain experience without being in action, though?" 

"That was my thought, but - well, Captain's orders."

Webster watches as George Luz mother-hens Sergeant Lipton as he shuffles towards the shower tent, obviously breaking his orders to check on the men and maybe get in a wash. “That’s unfortunate. Sergeant Malarkey could really use a break.”

“That’s what the others were saying. What happened to him?”

Nothing, and yet… “Lost his five best friends in Bastogne. Two dead, three severely wounded. If there’s any man that deserves to be off the line, it’s --”  _ all of them _ “-- Malarkey.” 

Jones hums minutely, the cogs obviously turning in his head. "Does Sergeant Malarkey want to go on the patrol?"

"Oh, God, no. No one does," says Webster. His gaze flits between the members of Easy Company that he recognizes as they filter through, categorizing by wound: Talbert and his pockmark scars from Smith's bayonet, Randleman's gnarled shoulder, and so many more. (He'd never thought he'd be able to identify a man based on the bullet scar on his ass, but the Airborne teaches skills both adaptable to peacetime and not.)

Jones says nothing, but he watches thoughtfully as Malarkey emerges from the tent, looking a bit like a drowned rat. Webster nods to him and leaves to make sure the other medics get the chance to shower. He ignores the feeling of eyes on his back, unsure as to whether the stare is Jones' or Liebgott's.

He has planted the seeds, but it is up to Jones to grasp his destiny.

* * *

He spends the rest of the day taking inventory of the medical supplies they've received since Bastogne, familiarizing himself with what Roe and Spina have obtained. Looking at the boxes of bandages and syrette kits fans an anger that has been smoldering in Webster for quite some time. Where were these bandages when Hoobler was bleeding out? Where was this morphine when Toye and Guarnere lay forever bonded in their suffering? Where were the goddamn  _ Winter Shoe Pacs  _ as they struggled through two feet of snow behind an incompetent CO? It is all an indignity he can barely stand. At least now they ought to be able to prevent any more casualties.

Around 1900 Roe brings him a cup of Dominguez' famous mystery stew; Webster respects the man but dearly misses hospital food. He shovels it down nevertheless. "Thanks, Gene."

"My pleasure. You know, they took Malarkey off the patrol," he says conversationally, easing himself down into a chair. "Martin's leadin' now. Jones is 'pparently observing."

"Is that so?" says Webster. He keeps a triumphant smile from his lips, but the edges curl up anyway. 

So the Lieutenant did have the guts to stand up for himself and Sergeant Malarkey, after all. Good. This ought to work out well for both of them. And Sergeant Martin will be a fine leader.

The Doc has an uncanny talent for staring into one's soul when he wants to, and he does so now, affixing his dark eyes on Webster's. He swallows and refuses to look away. "What're you doin', Webster?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You gon' get yo'self in a spot of trouble, meddlin' in combat affairs." 

"I haven't meddled in anything," he retorts. "If I happened to express my concerns about Sergeant Malarkey's welfare to a ranking officer, that is between him and I. I've only been doing my job. It's not as if I told Captain Winters I thought he was unfit to lead."

His attempt at justification only earns him the infamous Doc Roe glare of exasperation, which makes him look leagues older than his mere twenty-two years. "You believe whatever helps you sleep at night, David. I know you was only followin' your heart. But you betta be prepared fo' the consequences."

Webster blinks at him, an unexpected lump forming in his throat that he tries to swallow down. Anything could go wrong on this patrol, for any reason -- the fickle nature of war is such that he sees no point in brooding over what 'could have been' -- but if something happens to or because of Jones, it will be directly his fault.

Whether they blame him or not, he will know.

“I’m not the one responsible for this decision,” he says, unsure as to whom he is trying to convince. “Nobody thinks I am, do they?” 

Roe shrugs noncommittally, which is a truly neutral gesture for the Cajun man. 

“Are people blaming me for Jones being on the patrol? What, is Liebgott talking shit?” demands Webster. He'd tried to snag Liebgott at some point to wish him good luck on the patrol, but the trooper had merely given him a dirty look and walked away with Sergeant Grant. Apparently his brief dismissal had hurt the man’s  _ feelings.  _

He stares Roe down but the man merely scowls. “Didn’t say nothin’ like that, an’ don’t drag me into your shit with your boy. If you wanna let him go on bad terms that’s up to you.” 

“I tried to talk to him. He didn’t want to hear it.”

“Course he didn’t, he’s just as stubborn as you are.” 

A sharp thump at the door disrupts their conversation. Sergeant Randleman’s silhouette fills the door-frame, smoke curling from his cigar. They both jump to their feet, alert and ready to attend to whatever emergency he may have come to report, but no such news comes.

“Webster,” he drawls, “c’mere. We need to have a chat, boy.” 

He’s never been particularly frightened of Bull, despite the man’s towering physique or his reputation as one of Easy Company’s ‘killers.’ Webster’s seen him comfort frightened replacements or dying men too many times for that. But there is something steely in his eyes that is unsettling. 

“Yeah, sure, Sarge,” he says, getting up. “I’m done eating anyway.” 

“Good, ‘cause I ain’t interested in caterin’ to your timetable,” says Randleman. Had he done something wrong? Webster frowns and shoots a confused look at Roe, who shrugs again. So he follows. 

It is a bit of a struggle for him to keep up with Randleman’s mile-long stride, and he begins to get the feeling he is being deliberately tested as the sergeant strolls through the streets of Haguenau. They end up close to the river, with a near-picturesque view of a house with German lights flickering in its window. Randleman leans against a wall and relights his cigar. Webster pulls out a smoke to occupy his own fingers. 

A heavy silence falls over them. Randleman remains as unbothered as ever; Webster tries to mimic his casual attitude and feels like a child mirroring their parent. 

“What d’you think we’re lookin’ at, Webster?” he asks. 

There is many a possible answer to that question and he hates not knowing which one is correct. “Er, the German line, sir?” 

“Closer than that.” 

“...the river?” 

“An’ now, why would we care about that?” 

Webster bites his tongue to repress a sigh. “Because we’re crossing it tonight,” he says, rolling his eyes. He ought to have known this would come back to his actions earlier that day. “Sir --”

“I ain’t asked for your opinion, Private,” interrupts Randleman, and Webster’s jaw clenches shut with a painful click, taken aback by the sudden shift in the air. The sergeant turns to pin him down with icy blue eyes. “Now, I like you, Webster, so I’m gonna give it to ya straight. You’re a good medic. Ain’t as good as Roe, but nobody is. But you oughta know what you can an’ can’t do, and messin’ with patrol affairs is one’a those things that’ll make ya lose all ya credit faster ‘n’ you can say Harvard.” 

Webster swallows, starkly reminded of his place in the army pecking order. "Permission to speak, sir?"

“...granted.”

“Sergeant Malarkey is in no condition to be leading a patrol, mentally or physically, sir,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Anyone can see that. I understand that I may have overstepped my bounds, but I was only doing what I thought was right.” 

“Ain’t nobody questionin’ your intentions, Webster,” says Randleman calmly. “But can’t nobody fix what’s wrong with Malark ‘cept himself, and it’s gon’ take a lot longer away from the line than tonight. Next time, you go straight to Captain Winters or Speirs with your concerns instead ‘a gossiping with a replacement who ain’t here for Easy Company.” 

There is no longer anything harsh in Bull’s tone, but Webster’s face burns hot with the humiliation of being called out for his mistake nevertheless. He glares at the German line. “Yes, sir.”

A large hand thumps his shoulder. “Don’t take it too personal-like. Ain’t your fault they put you medics in charge of keepin’ up everyone’s morale. And ain’t your fault what Malarkey’s goin’ through.” 

“I just thought… he’s all alone,” mumbles Webster. “At least Sergeant Martin has you. He doesn’t have anyone.” 

“And just what do you think is goin’ on between myself and Johnny, Private Webster?” 

Webster blinks, blindsided by the sudden hostility in Bull’s voice, sharp like a biting Bastogne wind; realization dawns on him when he recognizes the hint of fear that lives in all of their kind flickering in the man’s eyes. He and Roe have an arrangement, and he suspects Liebgott and Heffron have come to a similar understanding regarding their natures. But his suspicions about Randleman and Martin are just that: suspicions. And he knows all too well the conflict between his infinite trust in Toccoa men and the fears that plague him as a queer man. 

He forces his tone to remain even and innocent. “Nothing, sir,” he says, trying to convey his understanding with his eyes. 

By the way Bull mimics his namesake, snorting and shaking his head, his act isn’t quite foolproof, but his lips twitch in what Webster hopes is amusement. 

“Hmm. Right,” he says. “Well, fine. Just remember, Webster. Only thing Easy hates more than Krauts is an educated man stickin’ his nose where it don’t belong. And ain’t no dog more protective than a pit bull.” 

Webster does not doubt him. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Randleman turns and begins to lope away, like a predator confident that its adversary is no longer a threat. “Get some rest, Webster. Think you’ll be needing it.” 

* * *

He is with Doc Roe and Spina when the patrol returns. 

Webster had considered standing by the river with the gunners and overseeing their retreat, but in the end he could not stomach the thought of witnessing a man fall and being helpless to do anything about it. Bull’s chastisement haunts him like the memory of a failed test or bungled social encounter, shame smouldering within him. 

So he passes the time shooting the shit with his friends, ignoring the tension that pollutes the air like M18 smoke. Fatigue drags at his limbs and thoughts, but Webster refuses to give into his body’s needs until the world is quiet again.

One moment, they are all laughing at an infamous Spina anecdote; the next Alley is bursting in and hollering, “We need a medic!”

Roe is gone in the blink of an eye. Webster looks at Spina and resists the urge to vomit. 

They follow. 

The cramped basement where the patrol has herded its prisoners is dank and smells of sweat and fear. Webster takes the stairs down three at a time, panicked war chant in his mind going  _ nonono don’t let it be Lieb, please God not Lieb, anyone but him, I’ll -- I’ll --  _

It’s not him. 

Webster doesn’t see the body; the commotion is too thick, men yelling and pushing and swearing, but he scans the crowd and finds Liebgott’s wide, horrified eyes, and the relief is so overwhelming his knees nearly give out.  _ He’s okay.  _ Across the room, Liebgott sags against a wall and scrubs his face with a sooty hand. 

“Alright, let’s get ‘im out of here,” booms Roe’s authoritative medic voice over the shouting. 

He elbows his way through the tumult and stares at Eugene Jackson’s half-melted face, twisted in anguish as he thrashes against the men’s restraints. His one intact eye is brimming with tears as he wails, “I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!”

“You ain’t gonna die, Jackson! Calm down!” 

“He’s gonna die!”

Webster pushes in close, cups his neck and presses hard against the blood flooding between his fingers. “Eugene, hey. You’ll be just fine. Hang on.” 

Sulfa, bandages, aid station…

Eugene Jackson was a Toccoa man who had been with the company from Normandy to Haguenau. He wasn’t really a man, though: he’d joined up at sixteen with the false sense of heroism that pervaded the American war effort. He dies at twenty, bleeding out on a table in France with his friends watching on hopelessly. 

Webster doesn’t know where to look. Sergeant Martin gently drapes a blanket over Jackson’s body, mourning a death he wouldn’t have witnessed if Webster hadn’t meddled. Lieutenant Jones has his gun trained on the German prisoners; his haggard expression is reminiscent of the faces he’d seen on D-Day+1, when he’d made it to Sainte-Marie-du-Mont and met up with Easy men who had finally realized what their training was for. Roe and Heffron exchange a shell-shocked look.

Numb resignation creeps through the room as the men slowly realize their loss. Martin mumbles, “His own goddamn grenade.” 

Something in him cracks, just the slightest. Webster walks out. 

He wanders Haguenau like a wraith, sticking to abandoned alleyways and crumbled buildings, where he picks over the ruined belongings of long-gone families absently, thoughts as dark as the endless void of night above him. Self-pity and regret wrap their arms around him, entwined with a slow, burgeoning resentment for anyone who’d had a hand in making this patrol happen. 

His mental tirade ranges from General McAuliffe down to Colonel Sink; when he starts in on Captain Winters, though, the anger fades. 

It’s not Winters’ fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. There is nothing to be blamed but this damn war. 

OP2 is quiet when he finally trudges in. The few men who had not been chosen for the patrol are sleeping, because only Sergeant Malarkey greets him when he comes upstairs. The ginger turns halfway from his perch by the window, moonlight pooling in the divots of his fair Irish skin. 

Webster throws his helmet down on Liebgott’s bed. “Jackson’s dead,” he says flatly. 

Malarkey hums as though he’d already known it, his eyes sad. 

“It was his own grenade,” he continues, furious and miserable and nothing but exhausted, all at once. 

“Mn. Prisoners?” 

“Two. I bet they’ll talk.” 

“Probably.” Malarkey snubs out his cigarette on the sill and stands. He lingers by Webster on the way past, lips parting as though he’d like to say something, but then he merely pats his shoulder and leaves. “Get some sleep, Web.” 

Webster throws himself onto Liebgott’s bunk and curls into a ball, caving to the desire to sink into the depths of slumber. His anxiety gnaws at him, though, like a hunger that twists his gut and keeps him awake until he hears footsteps on the stairs. He recognizes Liebgott by the half-hitch in his breath more than anything else. It is too much to move, though, so he remains still and hopes that Liebgott will see the action for what it is: an admission of guilt and a request for comfort. 

Liebgott sighs, the noise exasperated. Even so, a moment later the bed dips and shrieks with his weight, and an arm wraps itself over Webster’s own, pressing them together from shoulders to hips. 

“Stop bein’ a blanket hog, Web,” he whispers. 

Webster giggles, and if it turns to a sob halfway through, Liebgott is kind enough not to point it out. 

* * *

In the morning, Malarkey informs them of the second patrol. Webster is numb to the news, as are most of the other men when they find out. 

At this point, it even makes a twisted sort of sense. Lose one man to a pointless mission? Why not risk the remaining lives for the exact same goal? 

In this world of war, they are all expendable. 

Liebgott looks lost as to where to direct his anger; he sulks the day away, sitting outside the OP and smoking. It it all-too-tempting to join him, but Webster knows if he does not occupy his time with something productive, he will slip right back into yesterday’s darkness. 

So he sits with Sergeant Lipton and fusses over the man, finally conducting the in-depth examination he’d wanted to do from the moment he’d realized Lip was sick. The atmosphere of the CP is still melancholy with the news of Jackson’s death, but it feels good to coax a laugh out of Lipton and Luz with his fastidiousness. 

For a while he can forget the danger that awaits their friends. All-too-soon, though, Captain Speirs walks in with the tell-tale expression of an officer tasked with a job he resents. 

“I’m assembling the men for briefing,” he says. “Don’t you dare look as if you’re going to get up, Lipton.” 

“I’m feeling much better, sir,” argues the sergeant. His condition has indeed improved, as Webster observed during his check-up; a healthy glow is beginning to return to his skin and his breathing is clear. Whatever local remedy Speirs had obtained for his sergeant, it had done its job. “I ought to be with the men.” 

“They can handle themselves well enough without you, Sergeant.” 

“Yes, I know, sir, but after last night… they need to know their officers stand with them.” 

“Considering how often you’ve snuck out to speak with them, I think they know,” Speirs says, frowning in an almost petulant fashion. When he’s not gunning people down or barking orders, Webster thinks, he looks like a child. “Luz, keep him here.”

“Luz --”

“Oh, no,” interrupts the radioman, shaking his head with wide eyes. “I’m not getting between Mom and Dad. Don’t do that to me.”

“What?” says a confused Speirs, while Lipton flushes a bright pink, quickly occupying himself with a frayed thread in his blanket. Webster glances between the two of them in bemusement before it clicks together in his head and he chuckles. Damn, Easy Company is queerer than he’d thought.

“What are you laughing at, Webster?” demands Speirs.

“Nothing, sir,” says Webster, adopting his innocent-as-a-virginal-maiden expression. Speirs doesn’t seem convinced, but he merely scowls and turns on his heel. 

“Fine. Whatever. You keep him here, Webster,” he orders, and then leaves. 

Luz whistles and gives him an exaggerated round of applause. “Damn, Web. You’re almost better at that than I am. Too bad you won’t ever have the good looks ‘a the  _ stunning  _ George Luz.” 

He laughs. “Oh, right. I suppose I’ll just have to remain the boring and unattractive David Webster.”

“Ah, humble ain’t a good look on you, Web,” says Luz. “Hey, Lip? Did we break ya?”

“Hmm? No, I’m alright.” Lipton shakes himself out of his thoughts, smiling bashfully at them. Webster is suddenly struck with a vision of the man dressed as a stereotypical mother, floured apron and all, and grins at how nice of an image it is. Whatever his inclinations, Lipton deserves that kind of domestic peace. 

They all do. 

The CP settles down after the captain leaves, as each of them retreat into their thoughts. Webster wonders how the briefing for the second patrol is going. Will they be changing the plan at all? Who will make up the assault team this time? 

He is sure they are about to find out when Speirs returns, but his expression is a blank mask tinged with confusion, and he merely gestures for them to leave the room. Luz shrugs, and so Webster follows him out the door, only to be once again accosted by a wild Liebgott. 

“Web! Web, they - shit, come on!” the man puffs, clutching at his ODs like a madman. 

He stiffens, mental alarm sounding. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”

“Huh? Fuck, no, I just - I gotta talk to you,” says Liebgott, pulling him away from the CP. His eyes are shining with an intensity edging on madness, and a wide grin threatens to stretch across his face. It would be a beautiful sight if Webster weren’t suddenly concerned for his bodily safety. 

“Uh, alright,” he says, allowing Liebgott to drag him along. “But are you sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, I’m fuckin’  _ great,  _ Web.” 

He drags Webster down the busy Haguenau streets, wearing his hyena grin all the while, until they’ve moved away from the river to the abandoned section of the town. Then he stops abruptly and pulls him into a storefront that was once a French  _ parfumerie _ , which overwhelms his senses with the almost sickening smell of flowers. 

“If you’re looking for a Christmas present, I like ocean scents,” Webster quips to disguise his nerves. 

Liebgott rolls his eyes, shuts the door, and backs Webster up against the wall until they're pressed flush together. He blushes, every inch of skin tingling where he can feel the pressure of Lieb's body against his, and puts his hands between them with no real intent to push him away. "What's going on?" he stammers. 

His canines flash in a toothy grin. "Winters canceled the patrol," whispers Liebgott. 

Webster blinks. "What?”

“He called off the fuckin’ patrol! Briefed us an’ everything, and then he just got this  _ look _ , and he said we all oughta get a good night’s sleep and report in the morning that we ain’t captured no prisoners!” 

It is a preposterous story, and Webster would call him out on it were he not able to flawlessly imagine the resolute expression Winters must have worn. 

“The Captain would disobey a direct order to protect Easy Company?” he murmurs wonderingly. When he thinks back on Winters’ leadership, though, it is impossibly easy to imagine him rejecting Sink’s orders for their safety. A sudden flood of fondness for their best commanding officer rushes through him.

“You wanna know what else he said?” asks Liebgott, grinning. 

“What?” 

“We’re movin’ off the line tomorrow.”

It is too good to believe. “Are you serious?” gasps Webster, and Liebgott grins against his mouth. 

“Hell yeah, baby,” he mumbles, kissing Webster, and it tastes of nothing but hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I managed to interpret canon in ways that made sense for this AU. Thought about throwing some angst in at the end and having Web reject Lieb, but let's let them be happy for now...


	4. Why We Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feels bad, man. 
> 
> Warning for verbalized period-typical homophobia, as well as a portrayal of the concentration camp and all that comes with it. As a goyim I have tried my best to portray this scene with the sensitivity it needs, but please offer constructive criticism.

The clatter of bricks, of fumbled footsteps on shattered stone. German and English melds into a cacophony of pleas, orders, swears. Beethoven’s opus 131 rises above it all, the only good thing in a town of evil, or so Webster thinks, watching the Germans set to righting the destroyed Thalem.

“Hitler’s dead,” announces Captain Nixon. 

The well of satisfaction in his soul that ought to bubble has run dry. Liebgott’s eyes are as tired and cold as his. 

* * *

Moving off the line feels almost too good to be true. As they leave behind the muddy ruins of Haguenau for the drenched-yet-verdant French countryside, Webster watches the shoulders of the second platoon men slump with relief. One by one it sinks in that their war might be coming to a close: Malarkey falls asleep with the hint of a smile on his face, Christensen pulls out his sketchbook to draw the landscape, and Liebgott will not  _ shut up. _

“What’re you gonna do when we get off the train, Web?” 

“Get as far away from you as possible,” Webster groans, letting his head thump against the corrugated metal of the boxcar they are riding in. Liebgott cackles, propping his feet up on the straw and kicking Webster’s thigh. He pushes them away. “Ugh, don’t touch me, your boots are all muddy.” 

“Alright, fine, princess. You ain’t answered my question, though.” Folding his arms behind his head, Liebgott affixes him with a look that suggests he will not take silence for an answer. 

Webster sighs. He really, truly wants nothing more than to never set eyes upon a dying man again, but it is too soon to hope for that reality. He knows that their war is not truly over until both the Germans and Japanese surrender and they ought to be prepared for any eventuality. But it is hard not to succumb to the burgeoning hope that sparkles in Liebgott’s smile. 

“I suppose I’ll bed down with Doc and Spina,” he says slowly, considering his options. “Then… I’d like to have the chance to properly write about the past few months. I haven’t opened my journal since Holland.” 

“Writing, huh,” muses Liebgott. “Hey, you write about me in there?”

“No.” 

“What? Com’on, really?” 

He shrugs. “Your existence wasn’t important enough to me back in October to warrant a mention,” he says honestly. His earlier entries are mostly concerned with D-Day and first platoon, rather than documenting the entirety of the company’s activities.

Liebgott scoffs as though offended, but it doesn’t last long, his expression morphing to a mischievous grin. “So  _ now  _ I’m  _ important _ enough to you that you’re gonna write all about me in that little diary ‘a yours, right?” he leers. 

“You’re certainly enough of a nuisance.” 

“Hey, I’ll take it.”

Webster rolls his eyes, though he has to admit that Liebgott is probably in the right. Of course, most of the interactions between them are too dangerous to put to paper, but it would feel odd to leave him out entirely. The last thing he wants is to write another romanticized, sanitized war memoir in which soldiers think of nothing but housewives with homemade bread and the glory of a righteous war. Easy Company is more than family to him, and he would do all of them an injustice if he fails to portray their bond properly.

"Ya thinkin' too hard, Web," says Liebgott, distracting him. The soldier gives him a plaintive shrug. "Write about me, don't write about me, I don't care. Up to you."

The message is clear.  _ We are what we are. In wartime, the thing that exists between us does not need to be explained.  _

But in peacetime? What will they be when the war ends? The thought of defining it, making it real, scares Webster more than any German attack. 

Liebgott's expression falters when he stands, mouth open as if he's about to spout a string of blustering insults, as is usually his wont when Webster gets fed up with him. He closes it when Webster crosses the gap, squeezing himself next to Liebgott and letting his head fall upon his shoulder.

"Shut up, Lieb," he mutters. He prays that the silence will last, particularly when McClung’s eyes stray from his gun cleaning to them curiously.

Of course, Liebgott merely snorts and knocks their heads together, not unlike a cat. “Whatever, Webster. I didn’t consent to bein’ your pillow,” he grumbles, but doesn’t seem inclined to move. After a moment, he adds in low German, “ _ Get some sleep, princess. _ ” 

Webster tries not to read too much into the way his heart flutters at the endearment, and closes his eyes.

* * *

It is strange to be back in Mourmelon-le-Grand after the past six months of war. Webster feels it to be an entirely different world: one where army protocols are vehemently enforced to compensate for their laxness on the line, where replacements are expected to be treated with the same respect as a man with two or three Purple Hearts, but also a world where they get showers and new Class As and tent roofs over their heads each night. 

He is not the only one to resent the strict training regime implemented by the new Major Winters. Spina curses up a storm every time he is summoned for a field problem, though Doc Roe just rolls his eyes. To make things worse, when they are not on Easy Company time, the medics are expected to help at the Mourmelon hospital. Webster’s time as a hospital patient was bad, but to be on the other side is no less disheartening. 

Here, he sees the Toyes and Guarneres, men who will return home never to be the same. 

He sees the Smokey Gordons and Albert Blithes, men who are still awaiting God’s decision as to whether they will make it home at all. 

And most of all he sees the Buck Comptons, men whose worst wounds are caused by their own psyches. Those are the men Webster wants to help most, and the ones for which he can do the least. 

Most of Easy Company is not nearly so resentful of their newfound positions. Liebgott is particularly light-hearted, soaking in the admiration of the replacements and playing the hero during their field problems, once leaping into a machine-gun pit to murder some unassuming sandbags, or so Webster had overheard Private O’Keefe gossiping. His jaunty spirit is infectious, though, and it is hard to be somber when he has Liebgott’s daytime teasing and nighttime rendezvous to look forward to. 

It cannot last forever, though, and the ides of March is their own turning point.

The division parade scheduled for today requires the most discipline and cleanliness that Easy Company has needed since Normandy. It has been a long time since Webster has taken pride in his appearance, so he puts extra effort into spit-shining his boots, fastening his jump wings just right, and washing his medic armband until it is snow white. 

It is while he is oiling his hair that the flap to their tent opens and a long, high, undoubtedly Liebgottian whistle breaks the silence. “Lookin’ damn good, Web.” 

Webster rolls his eyes, used to the man’s over-the-top flattery. If Liebgott sees in him what Webster notices when he turns, though, there may be a grain of truth to his words, because Liebgott looks like the epitome of a paratrooper Corporal. His hair is gracefully swept back, fair skin almost sparkling clean, and his Class As fit his slight figure extremely well. 

“...thanks,” he manages, taken aback by a wave of lust-tinged affection. “You clean up well, too, Liebgott.” 

“Damn right I do.” He peacocks forward, running his hands through Webster’s hair despite his fervent opposition, examining it with the critical eye of a barber. “You need a cut. Wan’ me to do it? I’ve got a deal you won’t be able to refuse.” 

“I’m sure you do,” says Webster. Liebgott quirks the corner of his mouth and he wants to kiss him, but there is no sense in it. Anyone could walk in at any time. He takes a step back and laces his hands behind his back to keep them occupied. “It’s not too long yet, though.” 

“Everybody says that ‘til they’re gettin’ called out by Speirs for not bein’ able to see what they’re doing.” 

“I can see perfectly fine.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’ve got enough shit in there to grease up a Sherman,” Liebgott snarks. “I’ll cut it after the parade, okay?” 

Whatever answer Webster might have offered is preceded by the rustle of the tent flap, and before he can react, Sergeant Grant is ducking inside. 

He is suddenly intensely aware of their position -- alone together, barely a foot between them -- and scrambles away from Liebgott, composing himself as to look the epitome of a normal, straight man. “Y-yes, sir?”

Grant merely quirks an eyebrow and says, “First Platoon, fall in,” before disappearing again. 

Webster swallows and tries to quell the panic that quickens his heart rate. Grant hadn’t seen anything damning, had he? They hadn’t been doing anything that could be used against them, save talking. He’d always liked the golden boy from California, but now he finds himself analyzing every aspect of the sergeant’s personality to calculate the likelihood that he may betray them. 

“You good, Web?” asks Liebgott, appearing unfazed. “Com’on.” 

“...right.” He leaves the tent, following far behind Liebgott, and falls in with the rest of the men. 

After the cursory three-hour wait that accompanies any official Army event, they are finally graced with General Eisenhower’s presence. Even Webster has to be impressed by the man’s genuine praise for the 506th, his stately appearance and the entourage of officers that flank him. Standing at attention with the French sun beating down on his helmet, Easy Company men on either side of him, Webster feels a particular sort of pride in his role that he hasn’t felt since earning his jump wings. 

He is no decorated combat veteran, but he has survived and helped others survive. 

They are given the night off after the parade. Most of the company scampers off to the pubs in Mourmelon, or crowds together for a few rounds of cards in someone’s tent. The incident from earlier continues to haunt Webster, though, so he begs absence with little protest from Janovec and his other friends. 

In the privacy of the tent he shares with the other medics, he kicks off his jump boots and flops onto his cot with his journal. He’s still working on catching up with his entries, so he cherishes this brief moment of peace, to process through writing what he has not yet dealt with in thought. 

Of course, it doesn’t last long. 

“Hey, Web! You in here,  _ princess? _ ”

He sighs and rolls over, gaze settling on Liebgott as he stumbles in with a bottle of beer suspended between his fingers and a ridiculous smirk on his face, all trace of the morning’s discipline lost. He’s alcohol-flushed but beelines in a relatively straight path over to Webster, sitting at the edge of the cot. “What’re you doing in here?” 

“Enjoying myself, or I was before you showed up,” grumbles Webster. The incident from this morning keeps him from giving into Liebgott’s attempt to clumsily kiss him, turning so his lips brush his cheek instead. “What do you want, Lieb?” 

“Thought it was obvious,” Liebgott whines, his expression turning downright wicked. “Looks like you could use some company.” 

“I was perfectly content being alone, thanks.” 

“Aww, don’t be like that. Hey, remember what I promised you in Bastogne?” chirps Liebgott, one hand landing dangerously high on Webster’s leg. “I was thinking maybe I could fulfill that, hmm?” 

He’s out of his Godforsaken mind, thinks Webster, gaping. “What? No! We aren’t having sex, not now, and  _ definitely  _ not here. Anyone could hear us. Anyone could  _ walk in. _ ” 

“That’s what you said in Bastogne, too,” Liebgott grumbles. “C’mon, Web, have some’a that paratrooper courage Ike was talking about. Live a little.”

“I am attempting to  _ prolong _ my life by not having sex with you in a tent.” 

Liebgott sighs. “It’s not like anyone would be surprised,” he mumbles, oblivious to the way his words incite sudden and all-encompassing panic in Webster, at least until he makes it known both loudly and urgently. 

“What? What do you mean?” He grabs Liebgott’s collar, shaking the sense back into him. “Who did you tell?”

“Hey, fucker, hands off!” His reflexes may be dulled, but Liebgott’s strength shows no sign of waning as he seizes Webster’s wrist and rips it away. He stands up, scowling, a confused crease between his brows. “What the fuck, Web?” 

"What do you mean, 'they wouldn't be surprised'? Who knows?" Webster hisses, driven to stand up and get in his face. His heart pounds doubletime, powered by terrified panic.

"What? Fuck, Web, nobody knows. Except Heffron, and that's only because he's with the Doc and I know  _ you  _ told  _ him _ . Besides, if they both know then Babe won't gossip with anybody else. Why the fuck d'you think I would spill?" demands Liebgott. 

"Then if nobody knows, why wouldn't they be surprised?"

"I don't know, 'cause we're not exactly subtle? They watched us figure our shit out; they know us just as good as we know them. But it's not like any Easy man would rat us out. We ain't even the only ones, yanno? Hell, sometimes I think half the fuckin' company's queer."

Webster has often considered the same possibility, but he finds no confidence in it now. "What about the officers? Do they know?"

"Fuck if I know! What, you scared, princess?"

"Of course I'm scared!" exclaims Webster, invading Liebgott's space more and more with every word. "You know what happens if we get caught. It's not just a blue discharge; it's a psychological evaluation, it's losing all our veteran benefits, it's never finding a decent job ever again. Or -- and this is also a distinct possibility -- Sink could just have us  _ shot. _ And, and so, maybe what happens in foxholes should just stay in foxholes," he finishes, chest heaving with ragged breaths and emotion. 

Liebgott has gone eerily still, his eyes copper chips of Bastogne ice. "What exactly are you trying to say, Webster?" 

They both know what he is saying. And Webster knows that it must be said: if not now, then at the end of the war, and it is his duty to spare them both as much misery as possible. And yet, his voice cracks with pain. "I -- we can't do this anymore, Lieb. What happens when the war is over and we go home and everybody expects us to marry a nice girl and have children? This," he gestures wildly between them, "this is a wartime thing. People like us can't do this in peacetime."

"War ain't fuckin over yet," Liebgott spits. "And I happen to know plenty of queers back in San Fran. Sure, they gotta hide, but they're happy. Of course, I doubt it's the same in  _ your _ circles." 

"Oh, don't make this into a class issue," says Webster disdainfully. 

"That's exactly what it fuckin' is, though, ain't it? You're cutting your losses now so you can go back to your folks with your ribbons and your jump wings and say, 'Hey look ma, I made it,' and then all those rich bastards'll come jumpin' outta the woodworks to  _ thank you for your service, Kenyon-- _ "

His fingers wrap vicelike around Liebgott's collar again, inches from strangling him. Nose-to-nose, he snarls, "You're  _ not allowed _ to call me that."

Liebgott is unfazed by his threat of violence, pulling a nasty smirk. "Aww, did I offend you, princess? Too fuckin' bad. Don't touch me." And he detaches Webster's grip with a twist of his arms, stepping away as if to leave. 

But he doesn't. "And you think I don't know what's waiting after this?" he asks. "That I'm gonna go home and my ma's gonna hug me and expect me to be the same Joey I was in '42, and she's gonna want me to marry a nice Jewish girl and pop out some little Liebgotts? Cause I fuckin'  _ know.  _ But you take pleasure where you can find it in war. I thought this one was worth the risk, Web. I guess you don't." 

His eyes burn with sadness, anger, and a sense of betrayal much deeper than Webster would expect, a piercing look that bayonets him through the heart. 

But he stands tall. "This isn't about pleasure, Lieb. It's about survival."

Liebgott scoffs. "It always has been. It's war. But I thought you of all people would get it."

Before Webster can respond, he leaves, beer bottle thumping to the ground in his wake. The last drops soak into the dirt, and Webster's heart with them.

* * *

Life marches on, and the Army along with it. 

On March 24th, they watch the 17th Airborne roar on down the runway in their C-47s, eager to land on the banks of the Rhine. Captain Nixon jumps with them, comes back, and drinks himself into a comatose stupor so complete that he misses a briefing. Doc Roe’s expression settles into that permanently furrowed state of worry, but the only person to ever talk sense into that man is Major Winters, and everyone knows it. 

At least Webster isn’t that bad, or so he thinks. Oh, he sulks, thinking over his quarrel with Liebgott until he wonders if he was ever in the right at all. 

But he is. He must be. 

He distracts himself with hospital shifts and pretend war, spends nights reading or writing or occasionally socializing. He spends time with the first platoon men that he’s always gotten along with: Janovec, Marsh, Wynn and MacCready, men who remain oblivious as to his plight. Roe says he refuses to be in the middle of any such “foolishness,” treating him normally despite the tension it causes him with Heffron, who has obviously sided with Liebgott and keeps shooting him dirty looks when he can. 

As for Liebgott, Webster avoids him at all costs, because the man is an absolute  _ nightmare  _ when they cross paths. If he’d thought Liebgott hated him before, the corporal despises him now. Every look is unimpressed, every comment derisive, as if Webster is no better than one of the teenage replacements that fills out the ranks of Easy. Sometimes Webster wants nothing more than to deck him, damn his medic armband.

But instead he takes that Harvard superiority that everyone expects of him and cloaks himself in it, because the war is ending and perhaps this will make it easier to leave it behind. 

April brings with it a legion of trucks and orders to move out to the Ruhr, where they take up an occupying position on the river. Men like Luz and Perconte spend their days attempting to fraternize with the local girls, despite the strict moratorium on such activity. As far as Webster knows, though, Janovec is the only man to get lucky, and gloats about it until Speirs catches word and gives him a stern lecture. Captain Nixon spends his days giving “Current Affairs” lectures and his nights breaking into pharmacies searching for his Vat69 fix. 

Webster just keeps his head down. He is tempted to join in on some of the rabble-rousing, especially when spring arrives in full force, but keeps to drinking and the occasional looting spree. 

The April 12th current affairs lecture is a somber one, what with the news of the President’s death. This was his war, after all, and its future seems even more uncertain with his passing. 

He is still dwelling on it two weeks later when their new orders come through, after all three hundred thousand German soldiers in the Ruhr surrender. In the rush of packing things up and retrieving spare medical supplies, he doesn’t even learn where they are headed until it is time to hop onto the DUKWs that will transport them, whilst eavesdropping on Perconte and Captain Speirs. 

“Where we headed?”

“The Alps.”

Webster takes pause in his supply collecting to listen in on their conversation, surprised. So they won’t be dropping into Berlin after all, he realizes in time with Perconte. Instead, their destination is -- 

“Bavaria,” he says to no one in particular, compelled to make the knowledge known. “Birthplace of national socialism.” Randleman shoots him an odd look as he passes, but he is the only one to take much notice of Webster’s musing as they climb onto the trucks. 

Liebgott sits across from him, steadfastly ignoring him. Webster watches him for a moment, then sighs and pulls out a cigarette. 

At least they will be returning to the one thing that still ties them together: combat. 

* * *

The days pass in a blur of nice weather, K rations, absolutely horrendous renditions of “Roll Me Over in the Clover” or “Blood on the Risers,” and a sense of camaraderie that warms even Liebgott’s icy attitude towards him. At some point they end up sitting next to each other, and Liebgott even starts  _ talking  _ to him again. 

Granted, his intentions are not entirely innocent, and nor is the conversation. 

“Gonna be good times, Web,” the trooper half-shouts to him over the roar of the truck, striking up conversation out of the blue. Webster is saved from having to respond by the mouthful of pseudo-meatloaf he has just taken, but he turns to give Liebgott a look, squinting against the harsh sunlight. 

“When we get home, I mean,” he elaborates, wind sweeping his hair back from his forehead. Most of the Toccoa men have discarded their helmets, unlike the replacements. “First, I’m gonna get my job back at the cab company in Frisco, make a fuckin’ killing off all the sailors comin’ home, yanno?”

Webster chews and says nothing, wondering just what his purpose is in bringing up home now, of all times. 

Liebgott smirks. “Then I’m gonna find a nice Jewish girl --”

Ah, there is it. 

“ -- with great, big, soft  _ titties _ \--” 

Dear God.

Luz laughs at his despairing expression as Liebgott quite artfully demonstrates what he is looking for in his hypothetical wife’s physique. 

“ -- and a smile to die for,” continues Liebgott, seemingly oblivious to Webster’s suffering, save for the petty mischievousness in his eyes. “Marry her. Then I’m gonna buy a big house with lots of bedrooms, for all the lil’ Liebgotts we’re gonna be making. She oughta like that.” 

There is many a despariging response he could make, but none feels quite right, especially with Liebgott so obviously mocking him. Perhaps he deserves this, having insisted upon a postwar vision of their normal, heterosexual lives; yet, the thought of Liebgott or himself with a woman is a discomfiting one. 

He focuses on his food, rolls his eyes, and nearly chokes when Liebgott asks, “What about you?” 

Does he actually want to know? Is this a reach towards reconciliation or another excuse for him to talk shit? 

Liebgott’s eyes are honest, so Webster swallows and says, “I don’t really know. I guess I’ll finish school first.” Though he dislikes the thought of going back to Harvard as though nothing has changed, as though three years haven’t passed and he hasn’t seen so much blood. “And then --”

“Wait,” frowns Liebgott. “You mean all this time you’ve been talking ‘Harvard’ this and ‘Harvard’ that, and you ain’t even done with school?” 

His tone is merely incredulous, but Webster takes it as an attack nonetheless. 

“For one thing, I haven’t told you anything,” he snaps, undeterred even as Liebgott’s eyes go wide. It is a clearly targeted dig that only manages to make him feel worse as he realizes how true it is; for what it’s worth, they don’t know each other at all. “But no, I haven’t finished school. So the fuck what? Two more years wouldn’t have taught me how to better save a man from bleeding out in the snow.” 

An awkward silence hangs between them, unnoticed by the rest of the men. Webster glares a hole into the metal bottom of the truck, angry with Liebgott for being Liebgott and with himself for sabotaging his attempt to play nice. 

Liebgott jostles him with an elbow, surprising him. When Webster meets his gaze, he looks simultaneously sheepish and amused, as if to say  _ I thought I was supposed to be the angry one. _ “Alright, Web, breathe a little,” he says even as he lights a cigarette, throwing an arm casually onto the back railing. Webster imagines the phantom weight of it resting heavy on his shoulders and wishes it weren’t so comforting. “Jesus. Fuck. Just the way you always talked, yanno? We all figured…”

“...Figured what?” 

“Nothing. You know, you’re right. So the fuck what.” He taps the ash off his cigarette and looks out, back along the line of trucks carrying 2nd Battalion. 

Webster works a string of what is hopefully-beef out of his teeth, shifting awkwardly as silence falls between them. Just as he’s about to strike up a conversation with Christiansen on his other side, Liebgott starts again. “So what did you study?”

He hesitates. But there is no harm in answering such a question, is there? "Literature."

"No shit? I love to read."

Now, that has to be a lie. "Do you?"

"Yeah! Dick Tracy, Flash Gordon mostly," says Liebgott, looking incredibly nostalgic as he takes a drag. "Yeah. Fuck." 

Webster, on the other hand, isn't sure if he ought to laugh or cry at this travesty of a conversation. In the end, he laughs.

They spend days on trucks and their nights kicking Nazi civilians out of their homes. Webster ends up as translator for half of the company, barking German while others do the threatening, swinging their M-1s around in much too close quarters for his comfort. Most every German they encounter claims not to be a Nazi, and the indignity of it is beginning to get on Webster's nerves.

_ "You wouldn't fucking be here if you weren't a Nazi," _ he snaps at a middle-aged blonde woman, her healthy, silk-shine hair a symbol of her complicity.  _ "As a matter of fact, neither would we. Get out." _

The woman gasps, eyes wide, and avoids him as she flees.

As a matter of fact, every experience with a German is beginning to piss him off. As they ride east, the trickle of surrendering soldiers becomes a tidal wave of marchers, interspersed with their officers riding on horse-drawn carriages like Napoleon's men in retreat from the Russian tundra, their expressions still vaguely arrogant as if to say, "We may have lost the battle, and the war, but we are still better than you."

Webster meets eyes with one such man, blue on blue, and he snaps.

"Hey, you!" he shouts, standing up from his seat and seizing a metal bar to keep himself steady. "Hey! You!" he shouts again, and the German officer's eyes widen, a curl of his lip the only other sign that he recognizes he is being targeted. "You stupid Kraut bastards! That's right! Say hello to Ford, and General fucking Motors!" Around him Easy men stir, some in agreement and others in discontent, but Webster plunges on. "Look at you, you stupid fascist pigs! You have horses! What were you thinking?"

Garcia slaps his thigh. "Give it a rest, Webster."

But he won't -- can't, not while the rage bubbles like a soda fountain in his gut, not with all this blood on his hands. He can't fight with bullets, but he can with words. "Dragging all our asses halfway around the world, and for what? You ignorant, servile scum! What the fuck are we doing here?!"

A hand grabs the back of his uniform and yanks him back into his seat. "You really went off on 'em, huh, Web," mumbles Liebgott, a laugh below the surface. "I think that's enough, though." 

He scowls, ready to turn and snap at Liebgott too, but the hand on his back flattens and rests there, seeping the anger from him. What difference does it make if he shouts, after all? It won't hurt the Germans any more than they already are. It won't bring back Van Klinken or Hoobler or Muck and Penkala. 

* * *

The cavalcade of 2nd battalion stops to rest in a town called Landsberg.While the rest of the men are out on patrol, Webster and his fellow medics seize the chance to do inventory of their supplies and attend to the minor complaints they've been bombarded with in the past few days. A strange smell wafts on the air.

"Here, take one of these per day. Now, get out of my office," says Webster, shoving a handful of glycyrrhiza tablets into the hands of a replacement with a cough. The last bit is tongue-in-cheek, considering they are cooped up in what remains of an insurance building, but the replacement seems to take his tone to heart and scrambles out nonetheless. 

"Still scarin' boys off, huh, Webster," says Roe, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he sorts bandages. 

He chuckles, the words having no sting when they come from Gene. "Of course, Doc. My life's ambition is to have teenage privates afraid of me. Just like they're afraid of Spina's face." 

Spina throws a roll of gauze and bonks him in the head. "Watch yer mouth, Web, or it'll be a scalpel next." 

"You wouldn't dare." 

Their friendly banter comes to an abrupt halt when a cacophony of stomping and yelling charges into their respite. It's Heffron, chest heaving slightly with uncaught breath, helmet askew on his head. Roe springs towards him, hands already up as if searching for invisible wounds, but they all wait for him to speak. 

"Y'all gotta come," he pants, appearing almost scared. "We're headin' out to look at somethin'. Bring all the supplies you can carry." 

"You okay, Edward? What's goin' on?" 

"I dunno, Gene, but it's bad." 

Webster shares a look with Spina, their laughter forgotten. Something foreboding rises in his throat like stomach acid. 

The forest is a peaceful version of Bastogne. 

What they find in the forest is so much worse. 

The barbed-wire fence rises high out of the mist. Webster had excused the odd odor of Landsberg as a mere side effect of the destruction, and his stomach twists to know the truth of it -- rotting, burning bodies -- is so much worse. 

Ghosts of men cling to the bars, dull striped pajamas hanging like sheets over their emaciated frames. Webster's eyes trace over their sunken faces and shaved heads, unblinking, committing each detail to memory even as he resists the urge to look at all. None of them cry out in relief, and Easy Company cannot verbalize its horror, so the world exists in silence save for the roar of the trucks as they grumble to a stop near the gates. 

Major Winters and the officers dismount first, movements stilted and hesitant. The world has turned on its head for them too. Webster hops down from the truck and joins the gaggle of men waiting for orders, for explanations, for a sign from God that what they are seeing is a figment of their twisted imaginations rather than a worldly reality brought on by their own kind. 

No such sign comes. 

Major Winters quietly orders for the gates to be opened. Perconte and Christiansen step forward, herding the prisoners (for that is what they must be) back until a path is opened for them all. Those who cling to the bars murmur in languages multiple, fluent or broken. 

When all else fails, Webster has always had faith in the ability of words to illuminate the truths of war. But here, faced with atrocity on a scale of which he cannot comprehend, language fails him. There is only the shell-shocked faces of humans who did not hope to be rescued, and those that did not expect to be the rescuers. 

Doc Roe shoulders him gently. Webster finds his own horror reflected in the Cajun's expression, but Roe's constitution has always been stronger than his, and determination sets his brow low. 

"C'mon, David," he murmurs. "We gotta help 'em." 

Help. Right. "Right," says Webster absently, but what sort of help can a mere airborne medic bring to what quickly seems like hundreds, thousands of starving, withering men? "What do we do?"

"What we can." And Roe is already pointing and moving. 

It pushes Webster to action, too. As he walks through the gates, prisoners grab at him with spindle-thin fingers, slipping away out of mere weakness. Each is adorned with a number, sewn onto their clothes, and many with golden stars. The implication of the latter strikes him dumb; instinctively, Webster reels about to search for Liebgott, but he is nowhere to be seen. Webster hopes with all of his might that the soldier had not come along. He does not deserve to see his people like this. 

Where does he start? Every man that shambles past him is in need of more than he can provide. Webster is left gaping, staring, hoping that someone will give him orders he can follow. 

Someone falls in front of him and Webster kneels to catch them, holding the man's arms as tightly as he dares. He helps to lower him to the ground and hands over his canteen. He does not need to understand Hungarian to know what the man is babbling, and as he sits, Webster is overwhelmed with despair, and not at the thought that this could be him. This could  _ not  _ be him, because he is rich and German. Had his grandparents not emigrated, he would not be in a camp, but he may very well have been a guard here. A Nazi. 

He could have been the one to lock dying men in a shack and burn them alive. And he was not, but plenty of men like him  _ were _ . 

"I'm sorry," he says, in English and German. It is all he can say, and he says it to every prisoner he helps. "I'm sorry." 

* * *

He does what he can. 

He distributes food and water, all that they have. He bandages external wounds when he can do nothing about the internal. He helps the sick out of the huts they were imprisoned in like cattle, all skin and bones, each gasping at the freshest air they've known for days. 

Men go into town and come back with commandeered food and water, stolen from the businesses of Landsberg. Webster has the urge to go with them -- to shove his pistol in a man's face and demand to know how he could ignore the fucking  _ stench  _ \-- but he is a medic, and his duty is to heal now more than ever. 

It goes too fast, though, grasping hands tearing what they can from the soldiers on the truck, and that is when Colonel Sink arrives with his regimental surgeon, to put it all to an end. 

"You've got to be kidding me," mumbles Webster when the news is announced, horrified at the thought. To lock them back up and rob them of their newfound salvation seems the greatest evil of all, and yet the worst part is that he knows it is the only thing to be done. 

Sergeant Grant appears just as distraught by the thought, but orders are orders. "Let's get it done, men," he says quietly. So with a rock in his throat, Webster stows away the cheese he had been distributing, and they herd the prisoners back into their cage.

Long after the war has ended, he will be haunted by their broken cries of "Bitte, nein."

Webster is urged into a truck by someone, perhaps Janovec, pushed up into the carriage with hands that are no steadier than his own. He does not protest. The others join him, some teary-eyed, fingers fidgeting or lighting cigarettes to ease the tension, and as they sputter away from the camp a parade of MPs arrive to take their place. 

Liebgott, Webster realizes dully, is not on this truck. He looks forward as they round a corner and spots him on the other, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. Nobody is looking at him, clearly uncomfortable with his grief. 

Webster wouldn’t know what to say anyway. No one does. 

* * *

What is there to say? 

The night is quiet. Each of the men copes with what they’d seen in his own way: most drink themselves into a stupor, or smoke until their fingertips are gray with ash. Sergeant Malarkey looks as drained as he had in Haguenau. Liebgott is nowhere to be found.

Webster cannot bear the thought of putting Landsberg to words. It must be immortalized, he knows, but the wound is so fresh that he fears his ink might turn to blood, were he to attempt objectivity. He eats his rations, vaguely comprehends their orders to move out in the morning, and takes his rest in a child’s bedroom where the bed is smaller than any he had ever had in his youth. 

It is impossible to sleep. Nightmares as memories haunt him until every shadow projects a body, every noise echoes a cry for help. The tension that thrums through his coiled body only heightens when Webster hears the door open, but he recognizes the silhouette as Liebgott before his fears can conjure any other possibilities. 

Questions rise to mind but he remains sleep-still, eyes closed, waiting. 

Liebgott’s breathing is fast and his movements hurried, fabric rustling in the silent room. Then the bed dips with his weight, making an ungodly creak, and a body curls into his, pressed close enough to leach his warmth and yet still trembling. 

Webster inhales, soft and slow, and wraps an arm around him, hoping that it will be enough to express all that words cannot. He laces their fingers together and murmurs, “You’re fucking freezing, Lieb.” 

There’s no laugh in his sob. Webster holds him tighter, as if that will ease the pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient, y'all. One more chapter left.


End file.
